WASHINGTON 
THE  MAN  WHO  MADE  US 


PERCY 


BY 
MACKAYE 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
DAVIS 


WASHINGTON 

THE  MAN  WHO  MADE  Us 


WORKS  BY  PERCY  MACKAYE 

PLAYS 

THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS.    A  Comedy. 
JEANNE  D'ARC.    A  Tragedy. 
SAPPHO  AND  PHAON.    A  Tragedy. 
FENRIS,  THE  WOLF.    A  Tragedy. 
A  OAKLAND  TO  SYLVIA.    A  Dramatic  Reverie, 
THE  SCARECROW.    A  Tragedy  of  the  Ludicrous. 
YANKEE  FANTASIES.    Five  One-Act  Plays. 
MATER.    An  American  Study  in  Comedy. 
ANTI-MATRIMONY.    A  Satirical  Comedy. 
TO-MORROW.    A  Play  in  Three  Acts. 
A   THOUSAND   YEARS  AGO.    A   Romance  of  the 

Orient. 
WASHINGTON.    A  Ballad  Play. 

COMMUNITY  DRAMAS 
CALIBAN.    A  Community  Masque. 
SAINT  Louis.    A  Civic  Masque. 
SANCTUARY.    A  Bird  Masque. 
THE  NEW  CITIZENSHIP.    A  Civic  Ritual. 
THE  EVERGREEN  TREE.    A  Christmas  Masque. 
THE  ROLL  CALL.    A  Masque  of  the  Red  Cross. 

OPERAS 

SINBAD,  THE  SAILOR.    A  Fantasy. 
THE  IMMIGRANTS.    A  Tragedy. 
THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS.    A  Comedy. 

POEMS 

THE  SISTINE  EVE,  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 
URIEL,  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 
LINCOLN.    A  Centenary  Ode. 
THE  PRESENT  HOUR.    Poems  of  War  and  Peace. 
POEMS  AND  PLAYS.    In  Two  Volumes. 

ESSAYS 

THE  PLAYHOUSE  AND  THE  PLAY. 
THE  Civic  THEATRE. 
A  SUBSTITUTE  FOR  WAR. 
COMMUNITY  DRAMA.    An  Interpretation. 

ALSO  (As  Editor) 
THE  CANTERBURY  TALES.    A  Modern  Rendering 

into  Prose. 
THE  MODERN  READER'S  CHAUCER  (with  Professor 

J.  S.  P.  Tatlock). 

AT  ALL  BOOKSELLERS 


EXITV5  -ACTA-  PROBAT 


WASHINGTON 

THE  MAN  WHO  MADE  Us 

A    BALLAD    PLAY 
BY 

PERCY  MACKAYE 

WITH    SCENE    DESIGNS    BY 
ROBERT    EDMOND    JONES 


NEW  YORK      ALFRED  A.  KNOPF         MCMXIX 

LIBKARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
DAVIS 


COPYRIGHT,  1919 

BY 
PERCY  MACKAYE 

All  rights  reserved 

In  its  printed  form,  this  play  is  published  for  the 
reading  public  only.  Dramatic  rights,  and  all  rights 
whatsoever,  in  the  play  are  fully  protected  by  copy 
right  in  the  United  States,  Great  Britain  and  coun 
tries  of  the  copyright  union. 

No  performances  of  this  play — amateur  or  pro 
fessional—may  be  given  without  the  written  per 
mission  of  the  author  first  obtained. 

For  permission  to  read  in  public  this  play,  or  any 
other  dramatic  work  by  the  author,  application  must 
be  made  direct  to  the  author,  who  may  be  ad 
dressed  in  care  of  the  publisher. 


TO 
THE  ARDENT  YOUNG  MEMORY  OF 

ADAIR  ARCHER 

SOLDIER,  ARTIST,  SCHOLAR, 

KNIGHT-ERRANT  OF  A  NEW  THEATRE, 

THOROUGHBRED  OF  WASHINGTON'S  VIRGINIA, 

THIS  PLAY  IS  AFFECTIONATELY 

DEDICATED 


PREFACE 

On  July  Fourth,  1918,  one  hundred  and  forty-two 
years  after  the  Declaration  at   Independence  Hall, 
Philadelphia,  in  defiance  of  King  George  of  Great 
Britain,  an  immense  shout  went  up  from  the  first  base 
ball-field  in  England,  out  of  the  lusty  lungs  of  Yankee 
soldiers,  ardent  with  unprecedented  vernacular: — 
"What's  the  matter  with  King  George? — 
He's— all— right!" 

With  that  gust  of  New  World  youth,  the  ancient 
connotation  of  kings  was  blown  into  oblivion,  and  the 
prerogatives  of  Democracy  over  Royalty  were  whole 
heartedly  sanctioned  by  the  united  posterity  of  George 
Washington  and  George  the  Third. 

On  that  same  Fourth  of  July,  speaking  to  the  rep 
resentatives  of  thirty-three  nationalities  gathered  on 
the  quiet  slopes  of  Mt.  Vernon  by  Washington's  tomb, 
President  Wilson  said: 

"What  we  seek  is  the  reign  of  law,  based  upon  the 
consent  of  the  governed  and  sustained  by  the  organ 
ized  opinion  of  mankind. 

"I  can  fancy  that  the  air  of  this  place  carries  the 
accents  of  such  principles  with  a  peculiar  kindness. 

Here   were   started   forces   which   the    great   nation 

ix 


x  PREFACE 

against  which  they  were  primarily  directed  at  first 
regarded  as  a  revolt  against  its  rightful  authority,  but 
which  it  has  long  since  seen  to  have  been  a  step  in  the 
liberation  of  its  own  people  as  well  as  the  people  of 
the  United  States;  and  I  stand  here  now  to  speak — 
speak  proudly  and  with  confident  hope — of  the  spread 
of  this  revolt,  this  liberation,  to  the  great  stage  of  the 
world  itself." 

This  play — the  first  published  work  for  the  theatre 
to  attempt  to  portray  George  Washington  as  its  cen 
tral  figure — has  been  long  a  plan  projected  in  the 
mind  of  the  writer;  but  not  until  almost  the  hour  it 
was  finished  (which  chanced  on  that  Fourth  of  last 
July)  could  its  theme  have  taken  on  its  full-rounded 
significance  today — the  relation  of  the  will  of  Wash 
ington  to  the  world's  will. 

For  not  only  Great  Britain,  France  and  America — 
the  Dramatis  Personae  of  the  drama  of  Seventy-Six 
— hold  now  the  stage  of  a  vaster  Theatre  of  the  Peo 
ples;  now  no  nation  or  people  of  the  earth  is  so  ob 
scure  as  to  lack  its  relative  role  in  the  world  drama 
of  LIBERTY  VERSUS  TYRANNY;  and  now,  for  all  the 
racial  groups  of  insurgent  Liberty  in  common,  Wash 
ington  rises — the  proclaimed  protagonist. 

A  theme  such  as  this,  so  vast  to  imagination,  might 
well  give  pause  to  any  writer,  were  it  a  question  of 
his  compassing  its  magnitude.  But,  as  it  will  require 
centuries  before  the  manifold  meanings  of  the  present 
conflict  can  be  illumined  and  wrought  into  art,  so  the 


PREFACE  xi 

image  of  Washington  must  remain  a  presence  in  ever 
growing  history,  to  be  glimpsed  and  revealed  by  un 
numbered  artists,  each  according  to  his  vision. 

At  the  date  of  this  Preface,  the  early  production 
of  this  play  has  already  been  announced  to  the  public. 

Concerning  the  two  structural  versions  of  the 
play — the  version  as  here  published,  and  the  version 
as  abridged  for  the  regular  theatre — the  reader  is  re 
ferred  to  the  comments  in  the  Appendix. 

Concerning  the  ballads,  historical  references,  and 
certain  aspects  of  a  new  craftsmanship  implied  in  the 
play's  structure,  further  comments  are  made  in  the 
Appendix,  which  contains,  as  well,  the  list  of  Charac 
ters  and  Scenes. 

The  play's  ballads  together  with  their  music,  with 
illustrations  by  Arvia  MacKaye,  may  be  had  in  broad 
side  form,  published  by  the  H.  W.  Gray  Company, 
2  West  45th  St.,  New  York  City. 

Without  the  sound  of  those  age-old  tunes  in  his  ear 
(tunes  still  sung  in  the  Southern  Appalachian  moun 
tains),  the  reader  of  this  ballad-play  will  lack  a  charm 
which  these  pages  cannot  supply  in  default  of  the 
play's  production. 

Paul  Leicester  Ford  has  shown,  by  exhaustive  re 
search,  how  enthusiastic  a  lover  of  the  theatre  Wash 
ington  was  throughout  his  life;  and  it  is  a  pleasant 
whim  of  the  writer  to  fancy  that  the  shade  of  the  great 
Virginian — haply  attendant  at  old  haunts  for  a  "first 


xii  PREFACE 

night" — might  find  an  old-time  pleasure  in  the  ballad- 
tunes  of  his  native  region  interwoven  in  this  play, 

PERCY  MACKAYE. 

Shirley  Centre,  Mass., 
15  September,  1918. 


OUTLINE  OF  PLAY 


PROLOGUE:  THE  FOREGROUND— POSTERITY. 

Prelude:  Fiddler,  Facts  &  Folk-Song. 

First  Transition:  "The  Golden  Libertee." 

Induction:  Laurels  for  the  Tomb. 

Second  Transition:  The  Fiddle  Plays. 

ACT  I.:  THE  BACKGROUND— MT.  VERNON. 

THIRD  ACTION:  THE  LAD  AND  THE  SOIL. 

Third  Transition:  Fighting  Frontiersman. 

FOURTH  ACTION:  "A   BIG  ACRE   TO   GAR 

DEN." 

Fourth  Transition:  "Old  Virgin-ee-ay." 

FIFTH  ACTION:  HOME  AND  PEACE. 

ACT  II.:  THE  CONFLICT— TAKING  HOLD. 

SIXTH  ACTION:  REVOLUTION. 

Fifth  Transition:  "Bands  &  Rebels." 

SEVENTH  ACTION:  HOME-LEAVING. 

Sixth  Transition:  "Bunker's  Hill." 

"Yankee  Doodle." 

EIGHTH  ACTION:  GRAPPLING. 

Seventh  Transition:  "Axes  to  Grind"; 

"Free  and  Independent"; 

"Raggle-Taggle   Gypsies." 
NINTH  ACTION:  "OVER  THERE." 


OUTLINE   OF   PLAY 

ACT  III.:  THE  CONFLICT— WINNING  THROUGH. 
TENTH  ACTION:  FAIR  ENEMIES. 

Eighth  Transition:  "Down   by   the   Cold   Hill- 

sidey." 

ELEVENTH  ACTION:  FAMINE  AND  FRIENDS. 

Ninth  Transition:  Gypsies  from  France. 

TWELFTH  ACTION:  THE  NEW  FLAG. 

Tenth  Transition:  "Betsy  Ross." 

THIRTEENTH  ACTION:         "A  MOMENT  MORE." 
Eleventh  Transition:  "Yorktown  is  fallen." 

FOURTEENTH  ACTION:  (1)  "LONG  LIVE  THE  KING." 

(2)  THE  ANSWER. 
Twelfth  Transition:  "O,  whar  '11  I  lay  my  heart 

down?" 
FIFTEENTH  ACTION:  PEACE  AND  "THE  REAL 

JOB." 

EPILOGUE:  THE  FOREGROUND— FUTURITY 

Recession:  The  Will-Song  of  a  World. 

Finale:  "The   Golden   Libertee." 


'Our  cause  is  noble.     It  is  the  cause  of  mankind? 

Geo.  Washington 


PROLOGUE 
AND  ACT  I 


PROLOGUE 

FIRST  ACTION 

(Prelude) 

In  the  theatre,  the  orchestra  has  played  an  overture 
of  themes  from  old  ballad  tunes  of  the  Ken 
tucky  Mountains;  the  overture  has  just  ceased; 
the  auditorium  is  growing  dark,  and  the  rise  of 
the  theatre  curtain  reveals,  behind  it,  inner  cur 
tains  of  blue,  closed  where  they  meet  at  the 
centre. 

And  now  one  of  the  ballad  themes  (the  tune  of  Ban- 
gry  Rewy^)  is  heard  playing  on  a  fiddle  at  the 
back  of  the  auditorium,  where — at  the  head  of 
one  of  the  aisles — out  of  the  dark  appears  a 
little  lantern,  borne  on  a  pole  by  two  Children, 
a  BOY  and  a  GIRL  in  tattered  raiment. 

Close  behind  these,  clad  in  old-time  garb,  comes  a 
FIDDLER,  who  is  playing  the  tune.  Under  an  old 
felt  hat,  wisps  of  his  long  hair  fall  about  his 
weather-browned  face,  neither  young  nor  old,  but 
wrinkled  with  lines  of  kindly  shrewdness  and 
good  cheer.  Slung  at  his  side  are  a  flute  and  a 
dulcimer. 

3 


4  WASHINGTON        [PROLOGUE 

Down  the  aisle  come  the  three  Figures,  in  the  lantern- 
shine,  and — crossing  a  bridge  over  the  orchestra 
— move  along  the  front  of  the  stage,  till  they 
stop  near  the  centre,  where  the  blue  curtains  are 
closed. 

Leaving  the  BOY  to  hold  the  lantern  pole,  the  little 
GIRL  tiptoes  to  the  FIDDLER,  who  stops  playing, 
and  bends  down  his  ear  to  her,  as  she  whispers 
up  to  him.  He  answers  with  nod  and  smile,  and 
speaks  in  a  quaint,  drawling  tone. 

THE    FIDDLER 

Yep,  here  we  be,  in  time  to  see  the  show. 
This-yere's  the  playhouse.     Us  must  knock,  ye  know, 
Three  times  for  luck,  to  raise  the  play-folks. — Rap! 

[THE  LITTLE  GIRL  touches  the  arm  of  the 
BOY,  who  awesomely  raps  the  stage  thrice  with 
the  lantern-pole. 

At  the  third  slow  rap,  suddenly  the  curtains 
rustle,  and  out  between  them  is  thrust  forth  a 
grotesque  Head,  wearing  a  Mask  of  Comedy. 
As  it  peers  down  at  them,  the  Children  shrink 
back,  startled.] 

THE   COMIC    MASK 

[Shrilly.] 
No,  no;  go  'way! 

[It  disappears.] 


PROLOGUE]         WASHINGTON  5 

THE    FIDDLER 

I  swan!     A  nutty  chap 
He  is!     What  ails  him? — Here:  you  try. 

[He  takes  the  pole  from  the  BOY  and  gives  it 
to  the  GIRL,  who  raps  it  thrice  on  the  stage,  more 
loudly. 

At  this,  another  Head — this  time  in  a  Mask  of 
Tragedy — stares  out  at  her.] 

THE    TRAGIC    MASK 

[Deeply.] 

Go  'way! 

THE    FIDDLER 

We  come  to  see  the  play. 

THE   TRAGIC    MAaK 

[More  deeply.] 

There  is  no  play! 
[It  disappears. 

The  Children  rush  to  the  FIDDLER  and  cling  to 
him,  the  GIRL  whispering  excitedly.] 

THE    FIDDLER 

[Chuckling.] 

Eh — what?     No;  don't  we  scare  ourselves.     I  reck 
oned 
We  come  to  see  a  show.     Wall, — wait  a  second! 

[Taking  from  his  belt  an  old  wooden  flute, 


6  WASHINGTON        [PROLOGUE 

he  plays  on  it  a  snatch  of  the  same  tune  he 
played  on  the  fiddle. 

While  he  does  so,  there  appears  between  the 
curtains  a  third  Head,  wearing  a  Mask  strangely 
winning  and  serene.} 

THE   THIRD   MASK 

Who  calls  there? 

THE    FIDDLER 

Us:  a  boy  and  gal  and  me. 

THE   THIRD   MASK 

No  more? 

THE    FIDDLER 

Jest  us. 

THE   THIRD   MASK 

But  who  are  those  I  see 
With  thousand  strange  eyes  staring  curious? 

THE    FIDDLER 

A  boy  and  gal  and  me  is  all  of  us. 

THE    THIRD   MASK 

[Stepping  forth  in  front  of  the  curtains — a 
Figure    robed    in    deeper    blue — removes    his 
mask,  retaining  it  in  his  hand.] 
And  who  are  you,  friend? 


PROLOGUE]        WASHINGTON  7 

.     THE    FIDDLER 

Me — I'm  Quilloquon: 

My  mother  hatched  me — with  a  wild  goose  honkin' 
West,  and  a  bell-wether  tinkle-tonkin' 
East.     Some,  they  calls  me  Dellum-a-down-derry. 

THE   THIRD   MASK 

Whom  have  you  come  to  see? 

QUILLOQUON 

George  Washington. 

These  childers  they've  heerd  tell  about  yon  cherry 
He  chopped  with  his  renowned-in-history  hatchet. 
I  promised  'em  a  peep-in,  and  I'd  catch  it 
If  I  went  back  on  my  word. 

THE   THIRD   MASK 

What  made  you  come 
This  way? 

QUILLOQUON 

Oh,  nosin'  after  news.     I'm  from 
Virginy  and  Kentucky — all  along 
The  ridge  to  Caroliny.     I  belong 
Where  folks  still  sing  and  fiddle  and  have  fun 
Jest  feelin'  lazy  in  the  mountain  sun, 
Atwangin'  dulcimers  aneath  the  holly, 
To  "Gypsen  Davy"  tune  and  "Soldier  Polly," 
And  swappin'  love-rhymes,  what  a  hunderd  years 
Ain't  rubbed  the  peach-bloom  off'n.     Little  us  keers 
For  far-off  up-and-doin's,  till  we  smells 


8  WASHINGTON        [PROLOGUE 

Gunpowder  in  the  wind :  then  ups  we  tells 

The  mountain  birds  good-bye  and  jines  the  colours. — 

Not  me  in  khaki:  that's  for  reg'lar  fellers; 

The  draft  went  by  me.     But  I  knowed  some  live 

Tunes  what  I  played  the  boys  in  Seventy -five 

Down  April  lanes  in  Lexington  and  over 

To  Yorktown,  so  I  resked  a  four-leaf-clover 

Them  songs  'ud  set  the  boys  a-marchin'  quicker 

To  settle  the  same  old  Devil's  tarnal  dicker 

He's  raised  agin  from  Hell. — So  yere's  my  kit: 

Flute,  fiddle,  finger-strings — and  songs  to  fit. 

THE   THIRD   MASK 

[Examining  it.] 
Your  flute  is  an  old-timer. 

QUILLOQUON 

Yep:  that's  one 

I  borrowed  off'n  Tom  the  Piper's  son 
To  fetch  me  over  the  hills  and  far  away. 

[THE  LITTLE  GIRL  nudges  the  FIDDLER'S  arm. 
He  starts,  nods  to  her  reassuringly,  and  turns 
again  to  the  Figure  with  the  Mask.] 
But  now,  your  honour,  what  about  the  play? 

THE    THIRD   MASK 

They  tell  me  there  can  be  none. 

QUILLOQUON 

They?     Who's  they? 


PROLOGUE]        WASHINGTON  9 

THE   THIRD   MASK 

My  helpers,  who  inhibit  me.     Pass  through 
And  meet  them. 

[Turning  toward  the  curtains,  the  Figure  claps 
his  palms  thrice.  Slowly,  on  either  side}  a  hand 
from  within  begins  to  draw  back  the  curtains. 

The  Children  come  close  to  QUILLOQUON,  who 
rubs  his  chin,  and  speaks  with  hesitation.] 

QUILLOQUON 

Axin'  pardon — Who  be  you? 

THE   THIRD   MASK 

I  am  an  art  that  knows  not  yet  the  way 
To  make  the  beauty  of  my  dreams  come  true: 
I  am  the  Theatre :  my  thousand  tasks 
Obscure  their  object,  and  with  many  masks 
I  am  myself  bewildered. — Pray,  come  in! 

QUILLOQUON 

[Removing  his  hat.] 
Thank  ye! 

[On  either  side,  the  Masks  of  Comedy  and 
Tragedy  continue  with  their  hands  to  draw  back 
the  curtains,  till  their  figures  stand  guarding  a 
medium  aperture  midway  the  opening  of  the 
stage. 

Through  this  aperture  is  revealed,  with  mys 
terious  lighting,  an  obscure  space  within,  hung 
round  with  the  same  blue  curtains,  except  in  the 


10  WASHINGTON        [PROLOGUE 

centre  background.  There — at  first  hardly  dis 
tinguishable — an  arched  panel  frames,  on  blue 
background,  a  great  DIM-RED  FIGURE,  its  limbs 
cloaked  in  large  folds,  its  visage  cowled.  Two 
white,  colonial  columns  support  the  panel's  arch. 

In  the  left  middleground,  a  dark  blue  chair 
of  colonial  design  stands  beside  a  blue  table, 
piled  high  with  manuscripts,  books  and  masks. 

Taking  the  Children  by  the  hand,  QUILLOQUON 
enters  and  gapes  around  curiously  as  the  Figure 
of  THE  THEATRE  goes  to  the  chair  and,  sitting, 
places  his  mask  on  the  table  with  others  which 
at  times  he  lifts  and  examines. 

Gradually  the  Children  become  aware  of  the 
DIM-RED  PRESENCE  in  the  panel,  and  timidly 
point  it  out  to  QUILLOQUON,  who  speaks  to  the 
Figure  of  THE  THEATRE,  with  lowered  voice.] 
Is  somebody  thar? 

THE   THEATRE 

So  you  begin 
To  see? 

QUILLOQUON 

Not  quite  I  can't,  and  yet  I  kin 
Darkish. — Don't  never  it  look  nor  speak? 

THE   THEATRE 

To  me 

No  look  nor  speech,  yet  inexpressibly 

Its  silence  grows  upon  me,  like  great  words 


PROLOGUE]        WASHINGTON  11 

That  tease  the  mind  at  twilight,  when  the  birds — 
'Twixt  song  and  sleep — commune  with  dawning  stars. 

QUILLOQUON 

What  doos  it  want  with  ye? 

THE    THEATRE 

Its  will:  a  dream 

Wrought  into  action:  a  majestic  theme 
Built  nobly  large,  in  measure  meet  for  one 
Whose  soul  was  large  and  simple — Washington; 
But  where  I  grope  to  build,  the  shadowy  bars 
Of  time  restrain  me,  and — in  nudging  file — 
The  gaolers  of  my  art  come  forth,  to  pile 
My  plan  with  heaped  confusion.     Look,  now!     See 
How  patiently  they  come  to  furnish  me 
With  hoarded  facts  and  hoary  inhibitions. 

[From  the  right — hardly  distinguishable  at 
first  from  the  blue  curtained  walls — appear  the 
blue-black  forms  of  the  INHIBITORS,  gowned  with 
bizarre  strangeness. 

Each  carries  in  one  hand  a  candle,  in  the  other 
— a  manuscript,  chart  or  book. 

Obscurely  they  approach,  in  file,  and  address 
the  Figure  of  THE  THEATRE,  successively  laying 
their  offerings  on  the  table,  around  which — after 
they  have  spoken — they  remain  standing. 

As  they  approach  and  speak,  the  DiM-RED 
PRESENCE  in  the  panel  fades  to  a  dullish  grey, 


12  WASHINGTON        [PROLOGUE 

while  QUILLOQUON  and  the  CHILDREN  draw  aside 
in  the  left  background,  listening.] 

THE    FIRST    INHIBITOR 

This  map. 

THE   THEATRE 

I  thank  you. 

THE    FIRST 

All  the  main  positions 

Are  clearly  marked — the  British  lines  in  red, 
The  Yankee  in  blue,  and  here — in  pencil  lead — 
The  progress  of  the  battle.     Some  six  score 
Like  this  I  have  in  set.     I'll  bring  you  more, 
For  you,  of  course,  will  need  them  all. 

THE   THEATRE 

Of  course. 

THE   SECOND 

A  memorandum. 

THE    THEATRE 

Thanks. 
THE   SECOND 

The  borrowed  horse 

He  rode  at  Brandywine  was  either  bay 
Or  dapple.     One  old  chronicler  says — grey; 
But  on  the  whole — and  after  much  research — 
I  stand  for  dapple. 


PROLOGUE]        WASHINGTON  13 

THE   THEATRE 

Dapple. 

THE   THIRD 

He  went  to  church 

Twice  that  December.     Here  you  have  the  dates; 
You  may  rely  on  them. 

THE    FOURTH 

I'm  one  who  hates 
To  differ,  but  I  think  I  can  adduce 
Proofs  to  the  contrary. 

THE    THIRD 

[In  tone  offended.} 

You! 
[They  confront  each  other.} 

THE   THEATRE 

[Intervening.] 

Please!     A  truce! 

THE    FIFTH 

Pray,  hear  me,  sir! — A  modern  audience 

Is  gifted  with  a  many-mirrored  sense 

Historical;  it  reads  biographies, 

Of  which  your  hero  has  his  legions :  hence 

It  is  not  unaware  of  diaries, 

All  in  your  hero's  hand,  which  tell  his  days 

And  hours  from  youth  till  death;  it  even  essajr 


14  WASHINGTON        [PROLOGUE 

To  draw  his  giant  portrait  'twixt  the  poles 

By  picturing  some  thousand  million  souls 

That  have  breathed  his  name  in  awe ;  so,  sir,  I  trust, 

Before  you  launch  your  drama  from  the  shoals, 

You'll  build  it  for  the  deeps.     Indeed,  you  must. 

THE   THEATRE 

You  think  I  must. 

THE   FIFTH 
Indeed ! 

THE   SIXTH 

My  neighbour's  mystics 

May  serve  some  purpose — possibly — discussed 
By  poets.     What  /  stand  for  is  statistics. 

THE   FIFTH 

/  mentioned  some. 

THE    SIXTH 

In  short,  sir:  give  'em  facts. 

THE    FIFTH 

That's  what  7  said. 

THE   SIXTH 

And  make  your  drama's  acts 
Toe  line  to  history. 

THE   THEATRE 

My  friends,  I  see, 
Are  strangely  in  accord. 


PROLOGUE]        WASHINGTON  15 

THE    SEVENTH 

Sir,  seriously 

I  beg  a  word.     These  others  give  well-meant 
Advice;  but,  sir,  /  stand  for  precedent. 
Your  chosen  subject,  Washington:  when,  sir, 
Was  that  great  theme  claimed  by  the  Theatre — 
I  mean  with  such  bold  title  and  intent — 
Till  now  before?     And  what,  sir,  is  your  Stage — 
Built  to  exhibit  baubles  of  our  age — 
That  you  should  raise  your  hand  toward  him,  and 

dare 

To  show  the  Father  of  his  Country  where 
Puppets  and  clowns  are  shown? 

THE   FIFTH 

In  the  public  square 
He  stands  before  the  people. 

THE   SEVENTH 

A  statue — yes, 

Sculptured  in  bronze,  austere  in  nobleness! 
A  poem,  grandly  couched ;  a  popular 
Oration;  a  laurel  wreath — those  truly  are 
Forms  of  admitted  precedent,  but  there 
Must  we  not  pause?     Sir — not  to  damp  your  spirit — 
How  do  you  dare  this  thing?     Do  you  not  hear  it — 
What  all  the  world  will  say? 

THE   THEATRE 

[After  a  pause,  speaks  with  dreamy  quiet.] 


16  WASHINGTON        [PROLOGUE 

Out  there — over  there — 

The  mouth  of  all  the  world,  cratered  with  fire — 
The  Sibyl  of  heaven  and  hell — I  seem  to  hear  it 
Speaking  one  name. 

There — over  there — out  of  the  pits  of  ire, 
Oracular  with  anguish  and  eclipse, 
The  heart  of  all  the  world — through  tortured  lips 
Crushed  with  despair,  crimson  with  torn  desire — 
Speaking  that  name. 

There,  where  the  looming  cloud-banks  of  our  boys — 
Storm  after  storm — snowflake  the  yawning  pyre 
Whose  hunger  never  cloys, 
One  will — the  will  that  tyrants  cannot  tire — 
Speaks  that  one  name, 
Blows  one  undying  faith 
Through    bugles    calling:     "Youth!     You    shining 

boys, 
That  sheathe  your  glad  souls  in  the  rusting  dark, 

0  dream  not  Death 

Leaves  you  uncaptained  when  the  day  is  done. — 
Above  the  Dragon  shines  your  own  St.  George: 
He  leads  you  still,  who  blew  a  dying  spark 
To  smithy  Freedom's  blade  at  Valley  Forge. 
Tonight,  in  sleep,  you  camp  with  Washington: 
At  dawn,  he  rises  with  you — and  the  sun!" 

THE   SEVENTH 

1  do  not,  sir,  quite  follow:  do  you  speak 
In  propria  persona,  or  in  "quotes"? 


PROLOGUE]        WASHINGTON  17 

THE   THEATRE 

What  does  it  matter,  friend?     All  words  are  weak 

To  echo  the  eternal  organ  notes 

That  sound  my  drama's  theme.     Reality 

Renders  an  aping  thing  of  masks  like  me 

Most  impotent  and  dumb.     I  fancied — ha, 

How  pale  are  fancies  now! — I  saw  a  page, 

Torn  from  a  starry  volume  called  The  Stage, 

Signed  with  a  fiery  hand:     America 

To  Washington. — Oh,  you  are  right, 

So  very  right,  my  kind  Inhibitors, 

To  nail  your  warning  knowledge  on  my  doors, 

That  I,  with  thanks,  will  bid  you  now  goodnigh 

So  blow  your  candles  out,  and  go  your  way 

With  minds  at  ease:     Tonight, — there  is  no  play. 

[At  his  gesture,  the  INHIBITORS  blow  out  their 
candles,  leaving  the  place  in  darkness,  out  from 
which  the  grey-cloaked  PRESENCE  in  the  panel 
glows  steadily  brighter  into  luminous  red,  while 
— silhouetted  against  it — QUILLOQUON,  with  the 
CHILDREN,  steps  forth  and  speaks  from  the  dim 
ness.] 

QUILLOQUON 

Axin'  your  pardon — where  do  us  come  in? 

THE   THEATRE 

I  beg  your  pardon. 


18  WASHINGTON        [PROLOGUE 

QUILLOQUON 

Axin'  yours  agin, 

We  see  your  poster  sign  outside,  and  so 
These  childers  took  a  ehanct  to  see  a  show, 
And  took  my  word  on  't  'twas  George  Washington. — 
Now  him,  sir,  when  I  knowed  him,  by  his  look 
He  wa'n't  nuther  a  statye,  nor  a  book, 
Nor  a  state-house  paintin',  but  a  human  critter, 
Like  most  o'  folks  in  Mother  Natur's  litter, 
Only  grittier  stocked;  so,  when  bad  times  come  on, 
They  grabbed  him  for  a  general  walkin'-stick 
To  help  'em  outen  the  mud,  and  nary  a  crick 
He  cracked  in  the  grain,  but  stood  like  hickory 
Hef  tin'  one-half  the  world. 

THE   THEATRE 

With  all  my  heart 
I  wish- 

QUILLOQUON 

[Goes  on,  with  a  dreamy  smile.] 

Aye,  sir:  on  winter-lonesome  nights 
And  black  hell  hangin'  over  airth  and  sea — 
Thar  was  a  man  could  trim  the  northern  lights, 
Or  tend  a  taller-dip. 

THE   THEATRE 

I  wish  my  art 

Could  serve  his  sturdy  truth;  but  you  have  descried 
The  webs  that  weave  me  round:  my  hands  are  tied. 


PROLOGUE]        WASHINGTON  19 

QUILLOQUON 

Then  s'pos'n  I  try  my  hand.     These  fiddle  strings 

Have  set  some  folks  and  kids  to  seem'  things 

Evenin's,  when  chimbley  pots  begin  to  simmer 

The  sap,  and  Sammy  shuts  his  Yankee  primer 

To  stare  in  to  the  burnin'  of  the  logs; 

And  this-yere  flute  has  whistled  it  with  the  frogs 

All  night  till  mornin'-up ;  so,  by  and  yon, 

To  young  and  old  through  all  Amerikee, 

When  hankerin's  of  home  and  spring  comes  on, 

I  fiddle  and  pipe  my  songs  of  Quilloquon — 

A  dream-bird  singin',  or  a  rollin'  drum. 

So,  childers,  come! 

In  this-yere  fiddle-kit  I  keep  my  show 

What  draws  ye  pictur's,  as  I  draw  my  bow. 

And  if  I  blow  my  flute,  or  twang  a  string, 

You  shet  your  eyes  and  watch  the  sights  I  sing. — 

These  theatre  pieces — th'  ain't  jest  in  my  way, 

But  yere  I'll  show  ye  now — a  ballad-play. 


(First  Transition) 

[Thrumming  low  on  his  dulcimer,  QUILLO 
QUON  begins  to  sing,  in  a  quaint,  sweet  voice, 
while  the  shadowy  space  around  him  quivers  and 
clouds  with  the  dawn  of  a  transforming  scene. 

Beside  him,  THE  LITTLE  GIRL  and  BOY — sit- 


20  WASHINGTON        [PROLOGUE 

ting  on  the  ground — gaze  up  at  him,  and  listen.] 

QUILLOQUON 

[Sings] 

There  was  a  little  ship  in  the  North  Amerikee, 
She  went  by  the  name  of  the  Golden  Libertee, 
As  she  sailed  in  the  Low-de-lands  low. 

0,  red  red  was  the  dawn-shine  that  spangled  in  her 

spars, 

And  blue  was  her  wave-line  beneath  the  morning  stars, 
As  she  sailed  in  the  Low-de-lands  low. 

0,  richer  than  the  Indies  the  cargo  that  she  bore 
Agliding  up  the  stream  by  the  sweet  Potomeek's  shore, 
As  she  sailed  in  the  Low-de-lands  low. 

Her  cargo  was  of  hearts,  heaped  as  high  as  she  could 

hold, 
Of  men's  hearts  and  women's  hearts,  more  wonderful 

than  gold, 
As  she  sailed  in  the  Low-de-lands  low. 

The  red  red  hearts  were  burning  her  golden  decks 

aboard ; 
Her  Captain  he  was  standing  where  cloudy  eagles 

soared, 
As  she  sailed  in  the  Low-de-lands  low. 


PROLOGUE]       WASHINGTON  21 

The  hearts  they  sang,  the  stars  sang:     "0  Captain  of 

the  Free, 
You  have  brought  us  through  the  tempest  in  our 

Golden  Libertee, 
As  she  sails  in  the  Low-de-lands  low." 


SECOND  ACTION 

(Induction) 

With  the  end  of  his  song,  a  booming  sound  is  heard, 
and  QUILLOQUON  and  the  CHILDREN  are  seen  sit 
ting,  in  broad  sunshine,  on  a  long,  low  doorstep 
of  stone  beside  the  door  of  a  grey-white,  wide- 
clapboarded  house. 

One  end  of  the  house  only  is  visible,  with  a  lower  and 
an  upper  window,  the  green  blinds  open.  On 
the  right,  this  end  of  the  house  is  connected  by 
an  arched,  roofed  colonnade  (curving  the  centre 
background)  with  the  end  of  a  kitchen,  corres 
pondingly  visible — with  doorway  and  windows 
— -on  the  left.  Between  the  door  and  lower 
window  is  a  bench.  Within  the  colonnade,  an 
other  passage-way  leads  left  in  to  the  kitchen — 
its  doorway  unseen. 

The  colonnade  consists  of  double  arches  with  col- 


22  WASHINGTON        [PROLOGUE 

umns,  spaced  and  proportioned  with  noble  sim 
plicity  and  charm.  Under  its  arches  the  eye 
looks  away  toward  low,  wooded  hills  and  the 
placid  blue  bend  of  a  river,  panelled  by  the 
white  columns. 

A  broad  road-path  skirts  the  buildings  and  colonnade 
as  far  as  the  house  doorstep,  and  defines  by  its 
curve  a  patch  of  lawn  in  the  foreground. 

On  this  pathway  and  lawn — alone,  or  few  in  groups 
— Tourists  are  scattered;  men  and  women, 
quietly  standing,  or  passing  with  movements  and 
voices  subdued  by  spell  of  some  unseen  presence, 
which  pervades  with  gentle  awe  the  common 
places  of  their  speech  and  action. 

Some  are  Civilians;  others  are  Soldiers,  in  American 
khaki,  French  light-blue,  Scottish  plaid,  and 
other  colours  of  the  Allies9  uniforms. 

Now,  through  this  scene, — when  QUILLOQUON'S  re 
frain  ("As  she  sails  in  the  Low-de-lands  low") 
has  hardly  ceased — a  distant  booming  resounds. 

Some  of  the  Tourists  stand  still  and  listen. 

Twice  more  the  low  booming  is  repeated. 

ONE    IN    KHAKI 

What  sound  is  that? — guns? 

A   CIVILIAN 

A  ship  on  the  river.     They  always  salute  his  home, 
where  they  pass  on  the  Potomac. 


PROLOGUE]        WASHINGTON  23 

A   SECOND    CIVILIAN 

[In  another  group.] 
Nearly  two  hundred  years,  you  say? 

A   THIRD    CIVILIAN 

[Turning  the  pages  of  a  book.] 
Yes:  the  date's  in  the  guide-book. 

THE    ONE    IN    KHAKI 

[To  ONE  IN  LIGHT-BLUE.] 

I  have  always  wanted  to  stand  here  at  Mt.  Vernon 
— before  I  went  over  there. 

THE    ONE    IN    LIGHT-BLUE 

[With  a  French  accent.] 
I  comprehend,  lieutenant. 

THE    THIRD    CIVILIAN 

[Pointing  in  the  book.] 

There  you  are:  1743:  ^The  present  house  was  built 
then  by  his  half  brother — Lawrence  Washington. 
Later,  after  George  himself  became  proprietor,  he 
made  additions  and  improvements — before  and  after 
the  Revolution. 

A   FOURTH    CIVILIAN 

He  was  born  down  the  river,  on  his  mother's  farm; 
but  he  came  here  to  live  as  a  boy. 


24  WASHINGTON        [PROLOGUE 

THE    THIRD 

Used  to  fox-hunt  with  his  neighbour,  Lord  Fairfax. 

THE    ONE    IN    KHAKI 

[To  THE  ONE  IN  LIGHT-BLUE,  pointing  toward 
the  house.] 

The  key  of  your  Bastile:  it  hangs  in  the  hallway. 
When  he  was  old,  it  was  sent  to  him — by  Lafayette. 

THE    SECOND    CIVILIAN 

[To  THE  FOURTH.] 

And  so  here  he  was  a  boy — and  a  man  in  his  great 
prime — and  here  he  died. 

THE    FOURTH 

Yes;  and  they  say  that  the  picture  of  Mt.  Vernon 
was  with  him  everywhere  he  went. 

THE   THIRD 

You  mean — a  painting?     Where  is  it  kept — in  the 
museum? 

THE    FOURTH 

No:     I  fancy  those  children  are  looking  at  it. 

[His  glance  falls  on  THE  LITTLE  GIRL  and 
BOY,  who  are  still  sitting  on  the  far  end  of  the 
doorstep,  while  QUILLOQUON  has  drawn  back  in 
the  shadow  of  a  pillar. 


PROLOGUE]        WASHINGTON  25 

Two  OFFICERS — an  Italian  and  a  British — 
now  come  out  of  the  house  and  are  passing  to 
ward  the  colonnade,  when  they  are  saluted  by  the 
OFFICER  IN  LIGHT-BLUE  and  pause,  returning  his 
salute.] 

THE    ONE   IN   LIGHT-BLUE 

Ah,  Messieurs  les  Colonels!     Listen!     Is  not  there 
I  hear  La  Marseillaise? 

[Faintly ,  a  distant  band  is  heard  playing  the 
last  strains  of  the  Marseillaise  chorus. 

Through  the  colonnade  several  Men  pass  off, 
bearing  large  wreaths  of  laurel.] 

THE   BRITISH    OFFICER 

Yes,  the  Envoys  of  the  Allies  have  arrived.     They 
will  place  their  laurel  wreaths  on  the  General's  tomb. 

THE    ONE    IN   LIGHT-BLUE 

Bien:  allons! 

THE    THIRD    CIVILIAN 

Come ;  let's  go  to  the  tomb.     There  will  be  speeches. 

THE   FOURTH 

[Following  quietly.] 
Yes — and  there  will  be  silence. 

THE   BRITISH    OFFICER 

[Going,  with  the  Italian  and  French  Officers.] 
The  High  Commissioner  of  England — yes. 


26  WASHINGTON        [PROLOGUE 

THE    ITALIAN    OFFICER 

[With  an  accent.] 

And  the  people  of  Garibaldi — they  too  remember. 
[They  pass  off  through  the  colonnade,  fol 
lowed  by  the  men  Civilians.] 

AN   ELDERLY  WOMAN 

[Walking  slowly.] 
The  days  don't  last  long.     It'll  be  a  lovely  sunset. 

A   YOUNGER  WOMAN 

[Beside  her.] 

And  quite  warm  outdoors.  Isn't  this  April  just 
perfect  at  Mt.  Vernon! 

THE    ELDER 

[Pausing,  as  a  whiff  of  breeze  brings  to  their 
ears  the  first  strains  of  "America,"  played  re 
motely.  ] 
I  wonder  what  his  mother  would  have  thought. 

THE   YOUNGER 

And  his  wife.  I  picked  this  sweet  verbena  in  the 
kitchen  garden.  Let's  take  it  to  the  tomb — from 
them. 

THE   ELDER 

[Lifting  the  green  leaves  to  her  face,  smiles 
back  at  the  other.] 
Smells  sweet — and  it  lasts. 

[They  pass  off  through  the  colonnade.] 


PROLOGUE]        WASHINGTON  27 

(Second  Transition) 

QUILLOQUON  rises  with  the  CHILDREN. 

They  are  alone  now. 

With  a  smile  and  mysterious  gesture,  QUILLO 
QUON  points  with  his  fiddle-bow,  off  left,  down 
the  path,  where  a  splotch  of  bright  scarlet  colour 
is  approaching. 

Then,  raising  his  bow,  he  begins  to  play  very 
softly,  taking  up  the  melody  of  "America," 
where  the  far  off  wind-instruments  are  playing  it, 
as  they  die  away.  So — peering  down  the  path, 
the  Children  pointing,  with  whispers — they  tip 
toe  through  the  colonnade.  There  they  linger 
momentarily  (before  going  off,  right)  as  along 
the  path,  left,  two  strangely  costumed  Persons 
enter,  conversing. 

[End  of  Prologue.  The  Curtains  do  not 
close  and  the  action  proceeds  with  no  interrup 
tion.] 


28  WASHINGTON  [Acr  I 


ACT  I 
THIRD  ACTION 

The  Persons  who  enter  are  two  Men — both  in  garb  of 
the  Middle  Eighteenth  Century. 

One,  in  bright  scarlet  riding-habit,  is  an  alert  short 
sighted  gentleman  of  about  sixty,  ruddy  and  ur 
bane. 

The  other,  A  YOUNGER  MAN  of  about  thirty — quiet- 
moving,  large-framed,  slightly  stooped,  his 
strong  face  pale — is  clad,  more  dull,  in  working 
clothes,  over  which  he  wears  the  cloak  of  a  Co 
lonial  Major.  Occasionally  he  pauses,  to  check 
a  slight  coughing. 

THE  ELDER  MAN  speaks  with  gusto,  twining  his  riding 
whip  with  a  sprig  of  ivy. 

THE   ELDER   MAN 

Ha,  Lawrence,  this  April — heigh? — and  young 
sap!  Who  wouldn't  be  alive,  .to  go  a-hunting?  A 
clear  horn  and  your  horse  limber,  a  live  pack  and 
the  red  devil  for  a  fox, — why,  here's  old  England 
even  in  your  new  world  wilderness.  Tom  Fairfax 
never  felt  more  at  home  in  Yorkshire. 


ACT  I]  WASHINGTON  29 

LAWRENCE 

Your  lordship  is  always  welcome  at  Mt.  Vernon. 
I  wish  only  a  bad  lung  didn't  keep  me  from  the  hunt. 

LORD    FAIRFAX 

Clever  hounds,  yours,  Major  Washington,  clever 
hounds!  Throats  chimed  like  bells  in  a  belfry!  Sir 
Roger  de  Coverley's  weren't  tuned  more  nice.  But 
my  beagles  are  quicker  at  the  scent. 

LAWRENCE 

Have  you  rid  far,  Sir,  today? 

FAIRFAX 

A  good  turn.  I'll  lay  't  was  twenty  miles  round 
before  we  run  down  old  Reynard  at  Dogue's  Creek. 
How  I  wish  George  had  been  along!  He's  the  blue- 
ribbon  lad  in  the  saddle:  a  Virginian  centaur!  Aye, 
Sir,  Master  Addison  could  have  drawn  a  pretty  myth 
ological  portrait  of  George — the  young  centaur  of 
Lost  Atlantis!  Damme,  Major;  I  miss  your  brother. 

LAWRENCE 

We  all  do.  He's  been  gone  a  month  now,  survey 
ing  your  lordship's  frontier  lands. 

FAIRFAX 

One  month? — one?  It  seems  a  dozen.  I  miss  the 
boy.  Ever  since  I've  neighboured  you  at  Belvoir,  he 
and  I — we've  been  old  dog  and  pup. 


30  WASHINGTON  [Aer  I 

LAWRENCE 

[Smiling.] 

You  have  watched  the  pup  grow  to  match  his  paws, 
my  lord. 

FAIRFAX 

Aye,  't  is  a  big  thoroughbred!  Sun-up  and  moon- 
down,  indoors  and  out,  books  and  brooks,  we've  trailed 
it  together.  Now  he's  gone,  I'm  clean  off  my  feed. 

Ah,  but,  Lawrence,  I  can  never  tell  thee  how  deep  it 
grips  me — the  wonder  of  him.  For  me,  he's  your 
new  world — the  bigness  of  it,  the  young  vigour,  the 
large  quiet,  the  bright  far  look-off  towards  an  im 
mense  tomorrow. — George:  my  young  George  Wash 
ington!  What's  he  to  do,  eh?  What's  he  to  become? 

LAWRENCE 

That's  on  my  own  mind,  Sir,  constantly.  Indeed, 
we've  been  holding  a  family  council  on  George's 
career.  Since  he  makes  his  home  now  with  me,  his 
mother  has  come  over  from  her  farm,  to  confer  about 
it. 

FAIRFAX 
[Starting.] 
Madam  Washington — here? 

LAWRENCE 

She  arrived  this  morning.  I  wish  your  lordship 
would  join  us  with  your  advice. 


ACT  I]  WASHINGTON  31 

FAIRFAX 

Advice? — Now,  now,  Lawrence!  I'm  a  daring 
man — but  no  Daniel!  I  was  once  presented  to  Queen 
Anne:  I  durst  offer  advice  to  the  Majesty  of  Eng 
land — but  not  to  George's  mother. 

LAWRENCE 

[Smiling.] 
For  so  quiet  a  person,  she  knows  her  own  will,  Sir. 

FAIRFAX 

Say,  rather,  the  will  of  the  elements.  Madam 
Washington  is  more  than  a  person — she  is  a  presence. 
Hers  is  the  majesty  of  Nature,  to  which  mere  man 
must  bow.  So  as  for  giving  family  advice — 

LAWRENCE 

[Laughing,  takes  FAIRFAX'S  arm.] 
Well,  Sir,  stay  the  night  with  us  anyway. 

[They  go  up  the  steps  to  the  house  door. 
LORD  FAIRFAX  enters  the  house,  followed  by 
LAWRENCE — his  laughter  constrained  by  cough 
ing. 

From  the  side-door  of  the  kitchen  appears  now 
a  bright-turbanned  Negress,  bringing  a  copper 
kettle  and  a  small  wooden  box.  She  is  followed 
down  the  steps  by  two  half-naked  little  black 
children,  whom  she  chases  in  again.  ] 


32  WASHINGTON  [Acx  I 

THE    NEGRESS 

Heah!     Run  'long  back,  yo'  chilluns;  run  'long  in, 


now. 


[Meanwhile,  through  the  colonnade,  from  the 
right,  have  entered  two  picturesque  persons, 
semi-military  in  appearance. 

One  is  a  big,  raw-boned  figure,  a  Man  of  about 
forty,  out  at  knee  and  elbow;  he  is  comfortably 
drunk,  and  carries  in  one  hand  a  small  wooden 
coop,  in  which  is  a  game-cock;  when  he  talks,  his 
speech  has  the  broad  drawl  of  a  native  back 
woodsman. 

The  Other — older,  stocky,  and  Dutch-featured 
— carries  two  broadswords,  which  he  fondles 
with  visible  affection.  He  enters,  speaking  with 
heated  affirmation.] 

THE   DUTCHMAN 

No,  tamn  it,  Master  Adjutant  Muse,  game-cocks  is 
no  gentlemans'  substitutes  for  proadswords.  My  tis- 
ciplines  here  is  for  to  learn  Master  George  Vashington 
— proadswords.  And  your  tisciplines,  Sir,  is  for  to 
learn  him  his  military  manuals. 

MUSE 

[Saluting,  bows  very  low.] 

Cap'n  Van  Bramm — your  mos'  obedient!  Come 
along,  then,  and  have  some  rum  punch. 


ACT  I]  WASHINGTON  33 

[Backing  toward  the  inner  kitchen  door,  he 
stumbles  against  the  Negress.] 
Kep'  it  hot,  eh,  Mammy  Sal? 

MAMMY   SAL 

Waitin'  right  inside,  Marse  Muse,  ri'chover  by  de 
chimbley. 

MUSE 

All  right,  Jacob:     Ain't  that  Dutch  treat  'nough 
for  gentry? 

VAN   BRAMM 

Aye,  Sir:  rum  punch  is  tamn  all  right  Tutch. 

[They  go  into  the  kitchen. 

Outside,  Mammy  Sal  squats  on  the  ground 
and  begins  leisurely  to  clean  and  burnish  the 
copper  kettle  with  fine  sand  from  the  box. 

Along  the  path,  left,  enters  quietly  a  Woman  of 
quaint  stateliness,  elderly  and  alert.  Of  middle 
height,  with  features  pleasing  but  strongly 
marked,  she  is  dressed  plainly  in  short  skirt, 
sack  and  mob-cap.  From  one  of  her  great  side- 
pockets  protrude  knitting  needles  and  yarn.  In 
one  hand  she  carries  a  garden  rake.  When  she 
speaks,  her  low  voice  is  musical  in  its  cadence, 
absolute  in  its  command.] 

THE   WOMAN 

Mammy  Sal! 


34  WASHINGTON  [Acx  I 

MAMMY   SAL 

[Jumping  up.] 
Howdy  evenin',  Missy  Washin'n! 

MARY   WASHINGTON 

Has  my  son,  Master  George,  come  home  yet? 

MAMMY   SAL 

No  'm,  Missy  Washin'n, — not  him. 

MARY   WASHINGTON 

I  have  been  taking  a  turn  round  the  buildings. 
Who  left  this  rake  in  the  dairy? 

MAMMY   SAL 

[With  awe.] 
De  Lo'd  he  know  all,  Missy  Washin'n. 

MARY  WASHINGTON 

[Handing  the  rake.] 
Take  it  to  the  tool  house. — Wait: 

[Pulling  from  one  of  her  pockets  two  strips 
of  coloured  cloth.] 

Who  has  been  weaving  this  cotton-jump  stripe,  and 
this  huccabac? 

MAMMY   SAL 

Dunno  'm.     Sophronie,  she  might-a-be'. 

MARY   WASHINGTON 

I  found  them  in  the  kitchen-garden.     Who  is  re 
sponsible? 


ACT  I]  WASHINGTON  35 

MAMMY   SAL 

Dunno  who-all,  Missy  Washin'n. 

MARY   WASHINGTON 

What  do  you  know,  Mammy  Sal? 

MAMMY   SAL 

Knows  ma  Sabba-day  chatachasm;  yas  'm! 

MARY   WASHINGTON 

That  's  good.  And  if  /  was  Mistress  of  Mt.  Ver- 
non,  Mammy,  I  would  learn  you  your  week-day  chat- 
echism. 

MAMMY   SAL 

Yas  'm. — Amen! 

[MARY  WASHINGTON  goes  in  to  the  house. 

MAMMY  SAL  starts  to  go  off,  left,  with  the 
rake,  but — glancing  back  at  the  house  door — 
pauses,  leans  the  rake  against  the  building,  and 
slowly  returns.] 

MAMMY   SAL 

Oh,  by  'n  by! 

[She  begins  a  low  singing:] 

"I  know  my  robe  goin'  ter  fit  me  well. — 
I'm  agoin'  ter  lay  down  de  heabby  load. 

"I  tried  it  on  at  de  gates  ob  hell. — 

I'm  agoin'  ter  lay  down  de  heabby  load." 


36  WASHINGTON  [Acx  I 

[Picking  up  the  copper  kettle,  she  begins  to 
thrum  and  beat  on  it  to  her  song,  swaying  her 
body  in  rhythmic  motion.} 

"Oh,  by-an'-by,  by-an'-by, 

I'm  agoin'  ter  lay  down  de  heabby  load! 

"Oh,  by-an'-by,  by-an'-by, 

I'm  agoin'  ter  lay  down  de  heabby  load!" 

[While  the  black  Woman,  in  her  scarlet  tur 
ban  and  yellow  garment,  increases  her  dance  to 
the  burnished  kettle's  music,  the  immense  Figure 
of  an  Indian  moves  in  to  the  colonnade,  from 
behind  the  kitchen  building,  and  stands  sil 
houetted  against  the  brightening  sunset. 

In  long,  red  blanket,  overtopped  by  high, 
white-feathered  headdress  flowing  behind  to  the 
ground,  his  painted  wooden  mask  turns  enigmat 
ical  eyes  toward  the  dancing  Negress. 

For  a  moment  the  Mammy  does  not  behold 
this  Figure,  who  watches,  motionless.  Then — 
in  deep,  guttural  voice — it  speaks.] 

THE    FIGURE 

Woman! 

MAMMY   SAL 

[Transfixed — drops  the  kettle,  with  a  stifled 
cry.] 
0  Angel  ob  de  Abysm! 


ACT  I]  WASHINGTON  37 

THE    FIGURE 

Woman!     Canst  thou  fill  the  hollow  places  of  hun 
ger? 

MAMMY   SAL 
[Sinking  to  her  knees.] 
0  Marse  Abaddon,  what  his  name  is  Apollyon! 

THE    FIGURE 

Mammy  Sal!     Canst  thou  cook  corn  pone? 

MAMMY   SAL 

0  yas  'r,  Marse  Apollyon ! 

THE    FIGURE 

Corn  pone,  and  roast  fowl  therewith,  and  sturgeon 
broiled? 

MAMMY   SAL 

0  yas  'r,  glory  salvation!     Fse  sassafras  fire  an' 
beech-nut  coals,  what  '11  cook  'em  gran'  on  de  spit. 

THE    FIGURE 

Rise  up,  then,  Mammy  Sal,  and  be  thou  numbered 
among  the  saints! 

[From  behind  the  mask  explodes  a  loud  roar 
of  laughter. 

Then — dropping  off  the  blanket,  feathers  and 
painted  face — a  tall,  great-limbed  Youth,  with 
glowing  face  and  light-brown  hair  grown  long, 
steps  forth  in  mud-spattered  gear  and  boots  of  a 
backwoodsman. 


38  WASHINGTON  [Acr  I 

Pointing  with  a  surveyor's  tripod  at  the 
aghast  Woman,  he  shouts  with  huge,  boyish  de 
light. 

For  an  instant,  MAMMY  SAL  stares  dumbly, 
then  leaps  up  with  a  scream  of  welcome.] 

MAMMY   SAL 

Marse  George!     Ah-ya!  honey  Marse  George! 

GEORGE   WASHINGTON 

[Roaring  with  laughter.] 
Oho-ho,  Mammy  Sal!     Scart  ye,  did  I? 

MAMMY   SAL 

'Lijah  an'  prophets,  honey!  Whar  yo'  done  git  all 
dat  debbel-Injun  truck? 

GEORGE 

Swapped  it  off  a  redskin,  up  country.  What  all's 
the  good  news  at  home? 

MAMMY   SAL 

Marse  George  come  home:  dat  all's  de  good  news. 
My,  my!  honey  belubed:  yo'  feet  upon  de  mounting, 
dey's  beautifu'  's  de  lilies  ob  de  fieF. 

GEORGE 

Never  mind  my  muddy  boots,  Mammy.  Just  mind 
my  belt  strap — and  that  corn  pone.  I've  been  a-fast- 
in'  since  sun-up. 


ACT  I]  WASHINGTON  39 

[Stooping  behind  the  kitchen  colonnade,  he 
lifts  forth  a  gun,  knapsack  and  kit,  from  which 
he  detaches  two  large  limp  birds.] 
Here;    run   along   and    cook   these   wild    turkeys 
I    shot.     And    mind: — corn-pone — roast-fowl — stur 
geon — 

MAMMY   SAL 

Broil'  wid  de  sassafras  fire!     Ri'choff,  honey! 

[Seizing  up  her  kettle,  she  is  rushing  in  at  the 
kitchen  inner  door,  when  a  dog  bolts  past  her 
there  from  inside  and  springs  toward  young 
Washington.] 

My  Lo'd!  heah  's  yo'  Mopsey-houn' ! 
[She  disappears  within.] 

GEORGE 

[Patting  and  fondling  the  hound.] 
Halloa,   Mopsey,   Mopsey   gal!     Well,   well,    old 
Mopsey  mine:  ain't  forgot  your  master? 

[Squatting  on  the  ground,  he  rolls  over,  laugh 
ing  and  playing  with  the  dog.] 
Come  here,   you   darling  bitch;   kiss   me  quick! 
Aha!  get  away:  quit  your  slatherin'.     What  you  nosin' 
for — maple  sugar? 

[Sitting  up,  he  pulls  out  some  maple  sugar, 
and  holds  it  teasingly.] 

Here:  have  a  lick,  old  Mops!  How's  all  the  dog 
gone  family?  How's  Musick  and  Pilot  and  True- 
love?  And  the  pupsies:  where's  little  Chaunter 


40  WASHINGTON  [Acr  I 

and     Tipsy?     Has     your     ladyship     weaned     'em? 
[ADJUTANT    MUSE    comes    stumbling    down 
from  the  kitchen  inner  doorway,  followed  by 
VAN  BRAMM.     The  former  carries  a  long  punch- 
glass,  from  which  he  is  drinking.} 

MUSE 

Tipsy,  says  he!     Listen  thar,  Jacob! 

VAN    BRAMM 

[Spying  George.] 

Veil,  de  tefel! — Master  George  Vashington!  God 
save  you  and  tamn  you,  and  velcome  you  pack! 

GEORGE 

[Still  fondling  the  dog.] 

God  save  you  both,  gentlemen,  and  pardon  me  not 
rising.  Mopsey  has  the  floor,  you  see. 

VAN    BRAMM 

And  how  is  vent  all  your  surveyings  and  vorks  in 
de  vilderness? 

GEORGE 

'Twas  a  grand  trip,  Cap'n:  big  woods,  March 
winds,  wonderful  mountains,  villainous  weather. 
Forty  miles  a  day,  lots  of  work  and  lousy  nights. 

[He  lifts  himself  up  on  the  bench,  where  he 
feeds  the  dog  maple  sugar.] 

VAN    BRAMM 

Ah!  nights  it  was  lousy — so? 


ACT  I]  WASHINGTON  41 

GEORGE 

Aye,  Sir,  indoors  we  catched  some  big  game.  In 
the  loggers'  huts,  that  was.  The  first  night,  I  stripped 
off  and  laid  me  on  a  bunk  in  the  dark — pitch  black. 
Then  begun  the  campaign:  the  March  of  the  Legions, 
I  called  it.  Tell  about  David  among  the  Philistines! 
I'll  lay  a  doubloon  I  slew  ten  score  o'  Goliahs.  After 
that,  I  swore  off  on  beds,  and  slept  out  nights  by  the 
fire. 

VAN   BRAMM 

On  de  ground?     And  vild  peasts  all  apout? 

MUSE 

Why  not,  Dutchy?  Bear  baitin'  's  bigger  sport 
than  flea  stalkin'. 

[Offering  his  punch-glass.] 
— George,  have  a  swig! 

VAN   BRAMM 

Master  Adjutant  Muse,  you  are  trunk;  and  trunk 
is  no  manual  tisciplines  for  young  gentlemans. — Look 
now,  Master  George;  here  pe  our  veapons:  vill  you 
practise? 

MUSE 

[Loudly.] 

Jury!  A  jury,  says  I!  George,  I  appoint  you 
gran'  jury. — Who's  drunk?  What's  the  verdict? 

GEORGE 

[Rising,  with  a  laugh.] 
Nay,    Master    Adjutant,    I    plead    non    compos. 


42  WASHINGTON  [Acx  I 

Having    had    no    punch,    I    beg    your    indulgence. 

MUSE 

[Flourishing  his  empty  glass.] 
Indulgence? — Indulgence    is    a    fair   verdict. — A 
mos'   hon'rable   gran'    jury!     Jacob, — George   begs 
my  indulgence  in  s'  more  punch. — Your  mos'  obed 
ient! 

[Bowing  unsteadily,  he  goes  in  to  the  kitchen. 
The  dog  follows  him  in.] 

VAN   BRAMM 

[Handing  GEORGE  one  of  his  swords.  ] 
And  now,  young  Sir,  you  is  rememper  your  posi 
tions — yes? 

GEORGE 

I  guess  so,  Cap'n;  though  they  ain't  exactly  Injun 
tactics. 

VAN   BRAMM 

No,  tamn  it:  proadswords  is  tactics  of  Christian 
gentries.  Gif  me  my  proadsword  and  my  piple,  and 
I  vill  learn  you  ampitions  pigger  as  de  vorld  and 
de  kingdoms  of  heaven  dereof . 

GEORGE 

Thank  you,  Captain;  but  my  ambitions  are  no  big 
ger  than  Mt.  Vernon. 


ACT  I]  WASHINGTON  43 

VAN   BRAMM 

Ah?  And  ven  some  odder  young  gentleman  vill 
insult  your  honour,  and  tefy  you  to  a  tuel — vat? 

GEORGE 

My  honour  is  my  own,  Sir,  and  not  another's.  I 
would  call  the  young  gentleman  an  ass,  and  invite 
him  to  wrastle  me. 

VAN   BRAMM 

My  poy,  mark  my  vords!  No  man  can  tell  ven 
vill  come  his  testiny  to  fight.  V(3ne  day  yet  you  vill 
tank  God  on  your  knees  down  for  old  Jacob  Van 
Bramm  and  his  proadswords. 

GEORGE 

I  thank  him  now,  Sir,  on  my  feet.  Will  you  show 
me  those  positions? 

VAN   BRAMM 

Ah! — positions  is  petter! 

[Drawing  himself  up  with  military  precision, 
he  demonstrates  the  sword  positions  and  strokes, 
while  GEORGE  watches,  attentive. ,] 
Vone — so;   two — and  so;   t'ree — and  so.     Pegin, 
now! 

[They  practise  together  the  broadsword  exer 
cises. 

GEORGE  strikes  and  parries  with  carefulness 
and  quick  decision. 


44  WASHINGTON  [Acx  I 

The  blades  clatter  briskly,  amid  occasional 
sharp  and  gay  interjections. 

Soon  the  house  door  opens  and  LORD  FAIRFAX 
steps  out,  peering  short-sightedly.] 

FAIRFAX 

What's  the  racket  there?  Who's  that?— George! 
Him!  [Calling  back.]  Lawrence!  He's  come; 
'tis  George.  [Hastening  forward.]  Lad!  My  dear 
lad! 

GEORGE 

[Turning  round.] 
Ha — your  lordship! 

FAIRFAX 

Home  again!  [He  grasps  GEORGE'S  hand.] 
Grips,  laddie,  grips!  Nay,  both  on  'em! 

[GEORGE  tosses  his  sword  away,  and  gives  his 
other  hand.] 

VAN   BRAMM 

[Picking  the  sword  up.] 
Tamn! 

[After  a  moment,  he  goes  off,  grumbling.] 

GEORGE 
I'm  right  happy  to  see  you,  my  lord. 

FAIRFAX 

[Rapping  him  with  his  knuckles.] 
Sound?  safe?  solid  all  through?     No  mishaps? 


ACT  I]  WASHINGTON  45 

GEORGE 

None,  Sir. 

FAIRFAX 

And  your  trip? 

GEORGE 

Oh,  a  grand  trip,  Sir!  Over  the  Blue  Ridge,  and 
up  the  Shenandoah  valley.  Your  lordship's  estates 
are  all  surveyed.  I've  fetched  you  home  a  map  in  my 
kit. 

LAWRENCE 

[Appearing  in  the  house  doorway,  calls.] 
Brother  George! 

GEORGE 

[Waving  to  him.] 
Halloa,  brother  Lawrence! 

FAIRFAX 

[To  GEORGE,  portentously.] 

Hearkee:  he's  fetching  your  mother.  Tis  a  con 
clave.  We're  settling  your  future  career! 

GEORGE 

Mine? 

LAWRENCE 

[To  MARY  WASHINGTON,  who  comes  down  the 
steps  with  him.] 
There  he  is. 

[Spying  his  Mother,  GEORGE  hastens  toward 


46  WASHINGTON  [Acr  I 

her  with  eager  affection.     Meeting,  they  greet 
each  other  with  a  controlled  gladness.] 

MARY  WASHINGTON 

[Giving  her  hand,  speaks  low.] 
George,  my  dear  son. 

GEORGE 

[Awkwardly  kisses  her  hand;  then  looks  in 
her  face.] 
Madam,  I  hope  you  are  well. 

MARY  WASHINGTON 

I  am  very  well,  George.  Your  shirt  is  wet  and 
very  muddy. 

GEORGE 

Aye,  Madam,  'tis;  the  creek  was  muddy;  I  swam 
over. 

MARY   WASHINGTON 

You  will  need  some  cherry  cordial.     Come  in. 

LAWRENCE 

Your  pardon,  Madam,  for  a  moment;  I  will  first 
help  George  in  with  his  kit.  Will  your  lordship  be 
so  good — ? 

FAIRFAX 

[Visibly  flustered,  offers  his  arm.] 
Mistress  Washington,  your  son  appears  to  have 
done  nobly. 


ACT  I]  WASHINGTON  47 

MARY  WASHINGTON 

[Intensely  serene.] 
Appears,  Sir? 

[Ujinoticing   his   proffered   arm,    she   walks 
beside  him  toward  the  house  door.] 

FAIRFAX 
[Fidgeting.] 

He  tells  me  he  has  surveyed  all  my  estates  in  the 
wilderness. 

MARY   WASHINGTON 

[Simply.] 
Then,  Sir,  'tis  so. 

FAIRFAX 

[Stammering.] 

In  four  weeks,  Madam, — four  weeks — that  is  really 
astonishing. 

MARY  WASHINGTON 

[With  gracious  finality.] 

Not  at  all,  Sir.     George  always  does  what  he  sets 
out  to  do. 

[Calling  back  from  the  doorstep.] 
George,  there's  dry  shirts  in  your  second  drawer. 
Make  haste  and  shift.     [She  goes  in.] 

FAIRFAX 

[Following  her,  murmurs  audibly.] 
Shade  of  Queen  Anne,  succour  thy  subject! 


48  'WASHINGTON  [Acx  I 

[^5  GEORGE  stoops  to  pick  up  his  kit,  LAW 
RENCE  stands  for  a  moment  silent — looking  off 
through  the  colonnade,  where  the  twilight  colours 
are  deepening  in  the  distance. 

When  he  speaks,  GEORGE  turns  at  his  tone, 
and  approaches  him,  quietly  anxious.] 

LAWRENCE 

George,  before  we  go  in,  I've  wanted  a  word  with 
you. 

GEORGE 

You  are  troubled,  brother  Lawrence!  What  is 
it? — What's  in  your  mind  for  me? 

LAWRENCE 

[Dreamily.] 

This,  George:  home — Mt.  Vernon.  That's  in  my 
mind  for  you,  always.  Look,  a  moment:  look  away 
down  the  river — the  bend,  there,  in  the  sunset:  quiet, 
full  of  God's  fire. 

GEORGE 
'T  is  very  quiet. 

LAWRENCE 

Yet  it  moves  on,  always. —  George,  what  is 
home? 


ACT  I]  WASHINGTON  49 

GEORGE 
Why,  this,  where  we  stand — here. 

LAWRENCE 

[With  strangeness.] 

Aye,  and  there,  where  we  look  off — that  bend  in 
the  river,  moving  on — always.  So  quiet!  yet  far 
down  there's  the  sea,  the  roar  of  great  waters — the 
sea,  that  leads  out  to  Europe — the  whole  world,  and 
the  stars  over  it. 

GEORGE 

[Gently.} 
Why  do  you  speak  like  this? 

LAWRENCE 

[With  sudden  impulse.] 
George — what  are  you  to  be? 


I? 


GEORGE 

[Puzzled.] 


LAWRENCE 

Our  father's  father  his  father  came  first  up  that 
river.  For  a  hundred  years,  this  valley  has  been 
home  and  country  to  our  race;  and  for  them  the  river 
was  moving  on  then,  like  now — quiet,  full  of  God's 
fire  at  sundown.  So  it  always  moves  on — and  re 
mains.  So  does  our  home,  and  our  country. 


50  WASHINGTON  [ACT  I 

GEORGE 

[Broodingly.] 

Home,  and  our  country.  [Starting.]  But  what 
makes  you  say  this  to  me? 

LAWRENCE 

George,  one  day  Mt.  Vernon  may  be  yours — not 
mine.  Aye,  sooner  than  later,  for  this  one  lung  of 
mine  can't  serve  me  much  longer. 

GEORGE 

Your  lung? 

LAWRENCE 

When  you  were  away,  the  doctor  tested  me. 

GEORGE 

Lawrence! 

LAWRENCE 

[Smiling  faintly.] 

I  won't  last.  So  I  asked  your  mother  to  come  over, 
and  confer  about  you. 

GEORGE 

Me! 

LAWRENCE 

Your  career.  They're  discussing  it  now,  in  there: 
England,  America,  army,  navy,  the  country:  which 


ACT  I]  WASHINGTON  51 

would  you  choose  yourself,  George:  sea,  sword,  or 
the  soil? 

GEORGE 

Me?     The  mud  on  my  boots,  Lawrence:  this  soil 
of  America — home.     Farming  for  me! 

LAWRENCE 

Ah,  so  I  guessed.     God  bless  you,  George!     Mt. 
Vernon  is  a  good  farm. 

GEORGE 

We  will  make  it  still  better. 

LAWRENCE 

We  will? 

GEORGE 

Us  both.     We'll  plan  it  out  together — soon. 

LAWRENCE 

[Murmurs.} 
Soon. 

GEORGE 

I  will  make  a  survey,  and  we'll  study  improvements. 
[The  house  door  opens.] 

MARY  WASHINGTON 

[Calls  from  the  doorway.] 

George!     When  are  you  coming  in?     'T  is  grow 
ing  dark. 


52  WASHINGTON  [Acx  I 

GEORGE 

Directly,  Madam. 

[The  door  closes. 

Together  they  go  toward  the  doorstep. 

Behind  them,  as  they  go, — panelled  momen 
tarily  by  the  central  arch  of  the  colonnade — a 
DIM-RED  FIGURE,  mysteriously  cloaked  and 
cowled,  blends  obscurely  with  the  last  dull  red 
of  the  sunset.] 

LAWRENCE 

[Pausing  at  the  doorway.] 

Brother,  your  hand!     How  quiet  the  dark  comes 
on! — Can  you  hear  any  sound? 

GEORGE 

[Slowly — listening.  ] 

Yes — I  can  hear  frogs  piping. — That  swamp  by  the 
creek  must  be  drained. 

[Darkness  deepens  over  the  scene,  as  vaguely 
thjir  dim  forms  pass  within. 


'(Third  Transition) 

Now  only  the  piping  of  frogs  is  heard. 
Now  the  piping  takes  on  a  peculiar  flute-like 
one,  and  grows  musically  louder,  assuming  the 


ACT  I]  WASHINGTON  53 

notes  of  a  melody — the  tune  of  Bangry  Rewy 
ballad. 

And  now  the  fluting  ceases,  as  the  voice  of 
QUILLOQUON  begins  to  sing:] 

QUILLOQUON 

Bangry  Rewy  acourting  did  ride,  3 

His  sword  and  pistol  by  his  side. 

Cambokey, 

Quiddledown,  quilloquon! 

Bangry  rode  to  the  wild  boar's  den 
And  spied  the  bones  of  a  thousand  men. 

Cambokey, 

Quiddledown,  quilloquon! 

There  Bangry  drew  his  warring  knife 
And  speared  the  wild  boar  of  his  life. 

Cambokey, 

Quiddledown,  quilloquon! 

Then  Bangry  rode  him  home  again 
Amid  the  cheers  of  a  thousand  men. — 

[From  the  dark,  excited  Voices  begin  to  shout: 
"Hurrah!  Hurrah!9'  and  the  voice  of  QUILLO 
QUON  grows  shriller  as  he  sings: 

Cambokey! 

And  now — in  a  sudden  burst  of  golden  sun 
shine — the  cocked  hat  and  face  of  the  Singer 


54  WASHINGTON  [Acr  I 

are  seen  disappearing  round  the  corner  of  the 
kitchen,  left,  flipping  out  the  final  refrain: 
Quiddledown,  quilloquon! 


FOURTH  ACTION 

Meanwhile  through  the  colonnade,  right,  three  Girls 
and  a  young  Man — all  about  twenty — come 
running  on,  shouting  in  gay  excitement:  "Hur 
rah!  Colonel  Washington!" 

They  are  accompanied  by  a  soldierly  Fellow,  in  rusty 
British  uniform. 

THE    FIRST    GIRL 

Colonel  Washington!     Colonel  Washington! 

THE    SECOND 

Where  is  the  hero  of  the  Monongahela? 

THE    THIRD 

Run,  George  Fairfax:  find  him  for  us.  Tell  him 
the  three  Graces  are  come  to  laurel-crown  him  for 
his  glorious  survival  of  the  French  and  Indians. 

GEORGE    FAIRFAX 

And  you  think  that  will  fetch  him?  Ladies,  you 
miscalculate  your  hero.  He  may  face  the  arms  of  a 


ACT  I]         .    WASHINGTON  55 

thousand  fighting  men,  but  the  arms  of  three  wor 
shipping  females — never!     I'll  tell  him  three  ancient 
market-women  are  come  to  purchase  his  vegetables. 
[Laughing,  he  runs  off,  left.] 

THE   SECOND   GIRL 

Scurrilous  man!     "Ancient,"  indeed! 

THE   THIRD 

He'll  announce  us  as  the  weird  witches,  with  humps 
and  broomsticks. 

THE    FIRST 

Ann  Spearing,  Elizabeth  Dent,  bow  ye  down  with 
envy!  Here  on  this  spot,  even  I,  Sally  Fairfax  of 
Belvoir,  once  played  "Button  to  get  Pawns  for  Re 
demption"  with  the  renowned  George  Washington, 
and  redeemed  the  pawns — with  kisses! 

ANN 

(The  Second.) 
Sally! 

ELIZABETH 

(The  Third.) 
You  kissed  the  master  of  Mt.  Vernon? 

SALLY 

Not  the  master  then:  that  was  long  before  his 
brother  Lawrence  died — when  George  was  a  cub, 
and  I  was  a  kitten. 


56  WASHINGTON  [Acx  I 

ANN 

Tush!  I  will  envy  no  felines.  [Showing  a  mili 
tary  coat  which  she  carries.]  Behold  our  hero's  coat, 
that  Bishop  here  poached  for  me!  In  this  he  fought 
when  Braddock  fell;  in  this  he  fought,  leading  our 
glorious  Virginians,  while  the  yelling  savages  fired 
from  the  woods,  and  the  stupid  regulars  ran  away  in 
their  red  coats.  [Turning  to  the  Man  in  British  uni 
form.]  Am  not  I  right,  Bishop? 

BISHOP 

Aye,  ma'am:  you  can  see  four  bullet-holes  there, 
was  shot  in  it  then. 

ELIZABETH 

[Examining  the  coat  with  SALLY.] 
How  awful!     And  his  horse  was  shot  under  him, 
you  say? 

BISHOP 

Two  horses,  ma'am.  Then  he  mounted  a  third, 
what  I  fetched  him.  That  un  belonged  to  my  old  Gen 
eral  Braddock,  what  the  General,  just  afore  he  died, 
he  give  Colonel  Washington — and  me  to  go  along 
in  his  sarvice. 

ANN 

Think  of  it,  girls:  the  whole  king's  army  routed — 
seven  hundred  killed  and  wounded — and  only  our 
despised  American  militia  to  give  real  fight  to  the 
enemy. 


ACT  I]  WASHINGTON  57 

BISHOP 

Right  enough,  ma'am:  your  Virginia  boys  they 
fought  back  o'  trees,  like  the  Injuns.  Clever  they 
was!  I'm  a  red-coat,  but  I  says  it:  If  my  old  Gen 
eral  he'd  a-took  the  Colonel's  advice,  we'd  a-never 
been  licked. 

ANN 

And  now  the  whole  colony  is  calling  for  Colonel 
Washington  to  raise  a  new  army. 

ELIZABETH 

[Flourishing  her  wreath  of  wild  laurel.] 
Oh,  where  is  he?     I'm  just  dying  to  crown  him! 

SALLY 

Here's  Humphrey  Knight,  his  farmer;  he'll  know. 

[Through  the  colonnade,  right,  a  Man  about 
thirty,  in  working  clothes,  is  entering  with  an 
older  Man  about  fifty,  wearing  a  Miller's  sack. 
SALLY  speaks  to  the  younger  Man.] 

Humphrey,  where  is  Colonel  Washington? 

HUMPHREY 

Well,  ma'am,  you  might  find  him  to  the  red  barn, 
and  then — you  mightn't. 

ELIZABETH 

Come  on,  girls:  hurry! 


58  WASHINGTON  [Acx  I 

ANN 

Wait  for  me! — I've  a  Latin  quotation  to  go  with 
that  laurel. 

[They  run  off,  left. 

Following  HUMPHREY,  several  Negroes  enter, 
carrying  a  long  wooden  box,  divided  in  six  open 
compartments,  with  supporting  timbers  to  stand 
ore.] 

HUMPHREY 

Set  her  thar,  boys,  and  wait  for  orders.     Marse 
Washington  he'll  be  along  soon. 

[The  Negroes  set  down  the  box,  and  seat  them 
selves  beside  the  kitchen  building,  in  the  left 
background,  where  they  commence  a  low, 
drowsy  singing  among  themselves. 

HUMPHREY — leaning  against  one  of  the  colon 
nade  pillars — takes  from  his  pocket  one  of  sev 
eral  wooden  pins,  and  begins  to  whittle  it  smooth, 
speaking  to  his  companion.'} 

Hot  weather,  William. 

WILLIAM 

[Pulling  his  fingers  uneasily.] 
Aye;  'tis  warm  waitin'. 

HUMPHREY 

Waitin'  for  who-all?— him? 


ACT  I]  WASHINGTON  59 

WILLIAM 

Aye,  him. 

HUMPHREY 

[Curious.] 
For  what-all? 

WILLIAM 

[Importantly  reticent.] 
Confidential. 

HUMPHREY 

Oh!— Mill  ain't  runnin'? 

WILLIAM 

[Shaking  his  head.] 
She's  gone  dry. 

[Turning  the  conversation  to  the  box.] 
What's  this-yere? 

HUMPHREY 

Seed  plantin'  outfit. 

WILLIAM 

This  late  a-season? 

HUMPHREY 

War  times,  he  takes  his  seasons  when  he  catches 
'em.  Sperriments,  William:  sperriments  in  soil  mix- 
in's  for  wheat,  oats  and  barley.  The  Cornal  he's  goin' 
in  deep. 


60  WASHINGTON  [Acx  I 

WILLIAM 

Aye;  he  do  that. 

HUMPHREY 

Six  compartments,  you  see,  all  numbered  orderly. 
Each  one  we  mixes  different — like  marie  and  half 
marie,  mud  and  earth  sandish,  cow  dung,  sheep  dung, 
clay  and  such  like. — Look:  he's  a-comin'  now  with 
river  muck. 

WILLIAM 

Who's  with  'm? 

HUMPHREY 

Yon's  Cap'n  John  Posey — come  round,  I  reckon,  to 
borrer  more  cash  off  the  Cornal. 

[Through  the  colonnade,  right,  WASHINGTON 
enters  wheeling  a  hand-barrow,  containing  black 
earth  and  cloth  bags.  He  wears  an  old  straw 
hat  and  farming  clothes.  Seeing  HUMPHREY 
and  the  box,  he  sets  down  the  barrow,  and  re 
moves  his  hat,  mopping  heavily  his  sun-reddened 
face. 

He  is  close  followed  by  CAPTAIN  JOHN  POSEY, 
a  pleasant-faced,  out-at-ends  country  squire 
about  forty,  clothed  with  an  indigent  elegance. 
He  toys  irresolutely  with  a  bone-topped  cane, 
and  speaks  with  a  gentle  drawling.] 

CAPTAIN    JOHN 

Col.  George,  don't  that  wheelin'  make  ye  perspire? 


ACT  I]  WASHINGTON  61 

WASHINGTON 

Sweat  buckets,  Sir,  thank  God!  [Pointing  to  the 
barrow.]  Humphrey,  how's  that?  [To  the  MILLER 
who,  with  HUMPHREY,  has  pulled  off  his  cap.]  Good 
day,  William. 

WILLIAM 

[Pulling  his  forelock.] 
Aye,  your  honour! 

HUMPHREY 

[Testing  a  chunk  of  earth  from  the  barrow 
with  his  fingers.] 
Right  smart  muck  I  calls  it,  Cornal. 

CAPTAIN    JOHN 

I'd  a-thought  now,  Col.  George, — I'd  a-thought 
a-wheelin'  dirt  was  work  for  niggers. 

WASHINGTON 

Dirt,  Cap'n  John!  This  here  is  wealth  of  the  In 
dies — gold  ore,  Sir.  Humphrey  and  me  we've  struck 
a  mine  down  the  creek;  eh,  Humphrey? 

HUMPHREY 

So  we  hopes,  Sir. 

CAPTAIN    JOHN 

Then  I'm  in  luck,  Colonel.  I  come  over  to  ask 
your  advice. 


62  WASHINGTON  [Acx  I 

WASHINGTON 

Gold  ore  advice,  Cap'n? 

CAPTAIN    JOHN 

Well,  kind  o'  mixed:  lucre  and  love  combined: 
Mammon  and  Venus,  Sir. 

WASHINGTON 

[Laughing.  ] 
That  sounds  like  a  love  match! 

CAPTAIN  JOHN 

[Solemnly. ] 

Wait  till  you  hear.  [Glancing  at  HUMPHREY  and 
WILLIAM.]  Could  I  state  my  case — confidential? 

WASHINGTON 

Of  course;  certainly. 

{Exchanging  a  look  with  HUMPHREY,  who 

grins,  he  moves  off  with  CAPTAIN  JOHN  toward 

the  house.] 
What's  your  case,  Cap'n? 

CAPTAIN    JOHN 

Why,  Col.  George,  as  you  pretty  well  know,  I'm 
hard  up,  but  I  could  a-been  able  to  have  satisfied  all 
my  old  arrears  some  months  ago  by  marrying  an  old 
widow  woman  in  this  county.  She  has  large  sums  o' 
cash  by  her,  and  pretty  good  estate. 


ACT  I]  WASHINGTON  63 

WASHINGTON 

Sounds  promising. 

CAPTAIN    JOHN 

Yes,  but  damme — 

WASHINGTON 

What's  wrong? 

CAPTAIN    JOHN 

Well,  Sir,  she's  as  thick  as  she  is  high,  and  she  gits 
drunk  at  least  three  or  four  a  week,  which  is  disagree 
able  to  me,  seein'  when  drunk  she  has  a  viliant  sperrit. 
So  it's  been  a  great  dispute  in  my  mind  what  to  do. 

WASHINGTON 

Too  risky? 

CAPTAIN    JOHN 

Why,  Sir,  if  my  last  wife  had  a-been  an  even-tem 
pered  woman,  I  believe  I  should  run  all  risks ;  but  her 
sperrit  has  given  me  such  a  shock,  I'm  afraid  to  run 
the  risk  again.  Yet,  damme,  I  must  marry  right  soon, 
bein'  hard  up.  For  short,  Col.  George,  could  you 
advise  me? 

WASHINGTON 

Well,  for  short,  Cap'n  John,  if  you  must  marry  and 
time  presses,  here  at  least  are  ready  assets:  one  avail 
able  widow,  with  cash  and  estate,  sober  three  days  in 


64  WASHINGTON  [Acx  I 

the  week.     The  other  days,  Sir,  you  are  very  welcome 
at  Mt.  Vernon. 


CAPTAIN    JOHN 

[As  they  turn  again  toward  the  wheelbarrow.] 
Right  neighbourly,  Colonel;  I  call  that  downright 
neighbourly. 

WASHINGTON 

So,  Sir,  if  you  should  yield  to  Venus,  I  will  propi 
tiate  Mammon  with  twenty  bales  of  tobacco.  Hum 
phrey  here  will  give  you  my  order  for  'em  when  the 
chimes  ring. 

[Taking  out  a  note  pad,  he  writes  on  it.] 

CAPTAIN    JOHN 

[Striking  an  oratorical  attitude.] 
Col.  George,  posterity  will  beatify  your  name,  Sir, 
as  the  best  neighbour  in  the  Potomac  valley. — I  will 
yield  to  Venus,  Sir;  I  will  yield  promptly. 

[He  goes  off,  left.] 

WASHINGTON 

[Handing  a  slip  of  paper  to  HUMPHREY.] 
Memorandum  for  Captain  John  Posey. 

[Turning  to  the  MILLER.] 

Now,  William,  you  have  a  report  for  me  on  the 
mill? 


ACT  I]  WASHINGTON  65 

WILLIAM 

[Looking  hard  at  the  cap  in  his  hands,  twists 
it  with  slow  fidgeting.] 
Aye,  your  honour — without  offence — confidential. 

WASHINGTON 

Oh! — certainly. 

[With  a  wink  at  HUMPHREY,  he  walks  away  a 
few  paces  with  the  MILLER.  While  they  stand 
conversing  together,  the  Negroes  continue,  more 
loud,  their  drowsy  singing.  After  a  moment, 
WASHINGTON  shakes  the  MILLER'S  hand,  with  a 
smile,  and  speaks  to  him  cheerfully  as  they  re 
turn  to  HUMPHREY.] 

All  right,  friend  William,  I  am  pleased  with  your 
services.  Call  at  my  barn  office  tomorrow  morning  at 
quarter  past  five  punctual. 

WILLIAM 

Thank  ye  kindly,  Cornal — me  and  the  mill  too! 

[He  goes  off  through  the  colonnade,  left,  smil 
ing  and  muttering  to  himself. 

WASHINGTON  looks  at  HUMPHREY,  and  both 
grin  broadly.] 

WASHINGTON 

Confidential,  Humphrey,  where  are  you  taking  our 
experiment  box? 


66  WASHINGTON  [Acx  I 

HUMPHREY 

Thought  likely,  Sir,  you'd  have  her  set  by  the  green 
house. 

WASHINGTON 

Quite  right.  [To  one  of  the  Negroes.]  Here, 
Zekiel,  you  and  Isaiah  tote  this  along. 

ZEKIEL 
Yas'r,  massa. 

[The  Negroes  lift  the  box  and  start  off  with 
it.] 

WASHINGTON 

Wait.  [To  HUMPHREY.]  You  understand,  when 
we  fill  these  compartments,  the  different  soils  must  be 
mixed  very  fine  with  the  manures.  [Lifting  a  sack 
from  the  barrow.]  We  can  use  a  bag  like  this,  to 
jabble  all  well  together  before  using. 

HUMPHREY 

I  get  ye,  Cornal. 

WASHINGTON 

Then  in  each  division  we  plant  three  grains  of 
wheat,  three  of  oats,  and  three  of  barley — all  at  equal 
distance  and  depth.  I'll  show  you  later.  Run  along 
now,  Zekiel.  How's  little  Jerry  and  his  Mammy? 

ZEKIEL 
Oh,  dey's  right  smartish,  massa. 


ACT  I]  WASHINGTON  67 

WASHINGTON 

Tell  Jerry  I  fetched  him  home  a  rattler's  skin,  with 
nine  rattles. 

ZEKIEL 

Golly!  nine  fotches  de  luck;  I'se  tell  'm,  massa:  he 
sho  pop  'is  eyes  wif  ticklement,  yas'r! 

[He  goes  out,  left,  with  the  box. 

For  a  moment,  WASHINGTON  stands  gazing  off; 
then,  dropping  the  sack  in  the  barrow,  he  turns 
suddenly  and  strides  back  and  forth,  stretching 
his  arms  with  relish  in  the  sunlight.] 

WASHINGTON 

Ho,  Humphrey,  Humphrey,  here's  the  life!  By 
the  etarnal,  'tis  grand  to  get  back  home  to  real  living 
again!  War  is  a  silly  interruption  of  farming. 

HUMPHREY 

It  do  set  us  back,  Cornal. 

WASHINGTON 

More  than  some  great  folks  guess.  If  every  king 
would  raise  his  own  vegetables,  our  military  manuals 
might  all  be  almanacks.  Here's  the  kings  of  France 
and  England,  now,  warring  for  a  new  world,  and  me 
helping  his  British  Majesty,  God  save  him,  to  prove 
his  argument  with  gunpowder;  and  meantime,  Hum 
phrey,  here's  our  home  ploughing  is  full  of  stumps, 
and  the  old  swamp  only  half  drained! 


68  WASHINGTON  [Aer  I 

HUMPHREY 

Gunpowder,  they  say,  is  rare  snuff  for  the  gentry, 
Sir. 

WASHINGTON 

Yes,  yes,  it  hets  the  blood,  man,  like  rum  punch! 
I've  knowed  days  myself  when  I'd  rather  hear  the 
bullets  whistling  than  the  robins,  and  a  tom-tom  drum 
ming  than  a  partridge.  For  all  that,  gunpowder  is 
poor  truck  for  farmers:  'tis  a  hot  snuff,  but  a  cold 
fertilizer.  [He  looks  at  HUMPHREY  whittling.] 
What's  that — a  timber  pin? 

HUMPHREY 

Aye,  Sir;  for  the  new  cow  shed. 

WASHINGTON 

[Taking  out  a  pocket  knife.] 
Let  me  finish  it.     Have  a  seat.     I've  something  to 
say  to  you. 

HUMPHREY 

[Taking   another   piece   of   wood   from   his 
pocket,  sits  on  the  bench.] 
Thank  ye,  Sir. 

[WASHINGTON  sits  on  the  bag  in  the  wheel 
barrow. 

For  a  while,  both  whittle  in  silence;  then 
WASHINGTON — without  looking  up — speaks 
slowly.] 


ACT  I]  WASHINGTON  69 

WASHINGTON 

Humphrey, — do  you  ever  find  it  hard  to  express 
yourself? 

HUMPHREY 

Never  find  it  nothin'  else,  Sir. 

WASHINGTON 

I  guess  'tis  mostly  so.  I  guess  that  all  the  elo 
quence  of  the  prophets  is  just  to  proclaim  man's 
dumbness.  As  for  me,  Humphrey,  to  get  back  from 
war  and  watch  plants  growing — 'tis  like  getting  back 
to  the  first  garden,  and  talking  with  the  Almighty  in 
his  own  language — wonder,  not  words. 

HUMPHREY 

Tis  a  kind  of  sarvice,  Sir,  without  the  preacher.  I 
often  thought  that. 

WASHINGTON 

Just  so.  And  so  I  guess  we  can  rightly  call  it  that 
gardening — real  gardening — is  the  Word  of  God. 
And  there's  three  great  things,  Humphrey,  in  that 
religion:  first,  there's  quiet;  and  second,  there's  order; 
and  third,  there's  growth.  Quiet,  order,  growth: 
there,  I  believe,  is  sound  faith  for  a  man  or  a  nation. 

HUMPHREY 

I  inkles  your  meanin',  Sir. 


70  WASHINGTON  [Acr  I 

WASHINGTON 

Tis  a  big  meaning.  Here's  our  country,  America 
— a  big  acre  to  garden:  Not  just  the  clearing,  stump 
ing,  fencing,  furrows  to  turn;  not  just  ditching  and 
ploughing  God's  earth,  mixing  of  soils:  'tis  the  right 
planting,  Humphrey — planting  and  mixing  of  men, 
aye,  and  the  weeding — the  sowing  and  harvest  of 
peace  and  war. 

HUMPHREY 

Judgin',  Sir,  by  public  meetin's  in  war  times,  there's 
some  would  plough  with  their  tongues,  and  harrer  with 
their  wind-pipes. 

WASHINGTON 

Aye — quiet  hell  with  hullaballoo:  'tis  a  common 
instinct.  God  puts  in  each  man  and  nation  one  great 
desire — for  liberty,  liberty  to  grow:  so  most  of  us 
begin  by  grabbing  our  neighbour's  garden — by  the 
Grace  of  God. 

HUMPHREY 

Livin'  together  is  sure  kind  of  a  tarnal  tangle-patch. 
What  do  you  reckon,  Sir,  is  the  way  out? 

WASHINGTON 

Order — the  order  of  liberty:  and  that  means 
method  and  will  to  practise  the  love  of  our  neighbour. 
Order,  Humphrey,  is  the  most  beautiful  thing  in  crea 
tion.  'T  was  God's  command  to  chaos. 

[Through   the   colonnade,    left,   re-enter   the 


ACT  I]  WASHINGTON  71 

three  GIRLS  and  BISHOP.     Tiptoeing  behind  the 
pillars,  they  peep  out  and  listen.~\ 

HUMPHREY 

I  wish  you  was  home  more  oftener,  Cornal.  A 
feller  would  raise  more  out  o'  farmin' — and  you 
along  to  talk  with. 

WASHINGTON 

Somehow  talking  comes  easier  here — along  with  a 
few  home  folks.  Out  there  fighting,  they  call  me  a 
shut-mouth  man. 

HUMPHREY 

[With  a  chuckle.] 
You,  Sir?     That  is  a  good  un! 

WASHINGTON 

Anyhow,  here  I  am — home,  and  now,  Humphrey, 
we'll  right  enough  farm  it,  eh?  I've  a  new  plan  to 
tell  you  about  cattle  feeding.  Listen  here:  If  we 
should  fat  one  bullock  altogether  with  potatoes,  an 
other  with  Indian  meal,  and  a  third — 

[Shrill  cries  break  short  his  speaking. 
With  a  rush  from  the  colonnade,  the  three 
GIRLS,  followed  by  BISHOP,  surround  the  ivheel- 
barrow,  where  ELIZABETH — from  behind — waves 
high  the  laurel  wreath,  and  lowers  it  on  WASH 
INGTON'S  head.] 


72  WASHINGTON  [Acx  I 

ANN   AND   SALLY 

Crown  him!     Crown  him! 

ELIZABETH 

Hail  to  the  hero  of  battles! 

WASHINGTON 

[Rising,  flustered.] 
Ladies! 

ANN 

Laurels  for  the  temple  of  Mars! 

ELIZABETH 

Oh,  don't  take  it  off! 

WASHINGTON 

[Removing  the  wreath  from  his  brow,  looks  at 
it,  and  stutters.] 
L-ladies — 

SALLY 

George!     How  wonderful  to  be  a  real  triumvirate! 

WASHINGTON 

A  what,  Sally? 

SALLY 

A  Roman  warrior  with  three  lives,  and  a  horse 
apiece. 


ACT  I]  WASHINGTON  73 

ANN 

[With  a  grand  courtesy. ~\ 
Exitus  acta  probat! 

WASHINGTON 

Beg  pardon? 

ANN 

That's  the  motto  on  your  shield  of  arms.  I'm  sure 
it  must  fit — it  sounds  so  glorious:  Exitus  acta — 

SALLY 

Be  quiet,  Ann!  0  George,  now,  tell  us  all  about 
the  bloodshed. — But  do  come  away  from  that  dirty 
wheelbarrow. 

ELIZABETH 

Please  tell  us! 

ANN 

Everything! — Don't  hold  back  the  worst,  will  you? 

WASHINGTON 

Ladies,  everything  to  oblige!  Where  shall  I 
begin?  You  have  heard,  I  believe,  of  my  death  and 
dying  speech — 

SALLY 

Oh,  several  versions  of  each. 


74  WASHINGTON  [Acr  I 

WASHINGTON 

Permit  me,  then,  to  correct  the  former,  while  I  com 
pose  the  latter. 

[He  attempts  to  withdraw.] 

ELIZABETH   AND   ANN 

No,  no!     You  can't  run.     Go  on! 

WASHINGTON 

Next,  ladies,  I  will  narrate  how  our  conquering 
army  was  tarnally  thrashed  to  thunder  by  the  enemy, 
who  knows  how  to  fight. 

SALLY 

George,  that  isn't  heroic! 

WASHINGTON 

[Raising  the  laurel  wreath.] 

And,  last,  permit  me  to  lay  this  tribute  where  it 
belongs — on  the  head  of  Bishop,  who  found  me  the 
horse  that  fetched  me  home  from  Ohio,  to  find  my 
self — a  Roman. 

[Putting  the  laurel  on  BISHOP'S  head,  he  bows 
himself  out  of  the  girls9  circle,  and  starts  off.] 

SALLY 

Don't  let  him  escape,  girls! 

ANN 

Nay,  indeed,  he  sha'n't!     Here's  a  warrant  for  his 


I 

ACT  I]  WASHINGTON  75 

captivity.     Look!      [She  holds  up  a  slip  of  paper.} 
Read  what  I  found  iif  a  coat  pocket! 

ELIZABETH 

[Snatching  it.} 
What  is  it?      [Reading  aloud.] 


ONE  ENGAGEMENT  RING 
2  Pounds,  6  Shillings,  0  Pence 


[The  GIRLS  shout  with  excitement:     "Engage 
ment  ring!"] 

WASHINGTON 

[Bursting  out.] 
Young  ladies!     Where — ? 
[He  stops,  confused.] 

SALLY 

Oho!  where  indeed?     Where  does  this  pledge  hold 
him  captive? 

ANN 

Rumour  answers — in  a  certain  white  house,  on  the 
Pamunkey. 

SALLY 

The  White  House! 


76  WASHINGTON  [Acx  I 

ELIZABETH 

Oh,  the  White  House!  [To  WASHINGTON.]  Nay, 
really — the  charming  Custis? 

ANN 

Look  at  him — frozen  image  of  Guilt!  Girls,  we 
must  deliver  him  to  his  fate.  You  see,  now,  where  all 
this  pathway  of  war  is  leading! — to  the  doorstep  of  a 
certain  White  House  and  a  charming  widow! 

ELIZABETH 

[Coaxingly.] 
Honest,  Colonel  George, — are  you  engaged? 

WASHINGTON 

[Idly.] 

Yes,  madam:  I  am  engaged  in  farming;  and  I  am 
busy. 

SALLY 

[Under  her  breath.] 

You  hear,  girls?  We'd  best  stop  teasing.  [With 
bated  tone.]  Forgive  us,  George:  we've  been  silly, 
but  we're  serious  now.  Do  tell  us  about  the  war — 
what's  to  happen.  When  are  you  going  back  to  take 
command? 

WASHINGTON 

[Flashing  a  look  of  grave  feeling.] 
Never — till  I  am  offered  it.     His  Majesty  has  never 
yet  commissioned  me  to  honourable  command.     I  will 


ACT  I]  WASHINGTON  77 

never  again  accept  of  less,  while  brave  men  are  butch 
ered  wholesale,  with  flags  flying. 

[From  the  left,  an  OFFICER  in  British  uni 
form*  carrying  a  document  with  seals,  is  hurry 
ing  in.  He  is  about  to  pass  WASHINGTON,  but 
stops,  speaking  short  of  breath.] 

He  is  followed,  more  slowly,  by  a  tattered 
country  Fellow,  carrying  a  fiddle.] 

THE    OFFICER 

I  beg  pardon,  Sir.     Is  this  Colonel  Washington? 

WASHINGTON 

It  is,  Sir. 

THE    OFFICER 

[Saluting,  hands  him  the  document.] 
I  come  from  headquarters,  Colonel.     I  bring  you 
here  his  Majesty's  commission. 

WASHINGTON 

[Takes  it,  clenching  his  jaw;  then  speaks, 
slowly.] 
What  commission,  Sir? 

THE    OFFICER 

As  Commander  of  all  the  Colonial  forces  in  Vir 
ginia. 

[WASHINGTON  stares  at  him.] 
The  GIRLS  cry  out  exultantly,  clapping  their 
hands.] 


78  WASHINGTON  [Acr  I 

THE    GIRLS 

Colonel  Washington — commander  by  commission! 
Called  back  to  his  country! 

[In  the  midst  of  their  cries,  the  FIDDLER  draws 
his  bow  on  his  fiddle  strings.  At  its  sound, 
pitched  high  and  sweet  like  the  GIRLS'  voices, 
black  darkness  blots  out  the  scene — to  a  tune 
still  playing  from  the  darkness.} 


(Fourth  Transition) 

The  tune  deepens  to  an  old  plantation  melody,  to 
which  the  strings  of  the  fiddle  now  are  struck 
with  low  strumming. 

Very  faintly,  at  first,  the  mellow  voices  of  NEGRO  MEN 
begin  to  sing  in  choral  harmony,  with  which  soon 
the  voices  of  WOMEN  and  CHILDREN  join. 

THE  VOICES 
Adam  and  Eba,  wipe  yo'  eyes, 

'Tain't  no  good  fo'  ter  gaze  at  de  garden; 
Closed  is  de  do's  ob  Paradise; 

'Tain't  no  good  fo'  ter  axe  no  pardon. 

Oh,  whar'll  I  lay  my  heart  down? 
Oh,  whar9ll  I  lay  my  heart  down? 
Eden  home  is  far  away. — 


ACT  I]  WASHINGTON  79 

Oh,  nebber  mind! 

Fll  lay  my  heart  down. 

Down  in  de  lap  ob  ol9  Virgin-ee-ay! 

Moses,  drop  dat  of  staf  in  yo'  hand, 
'Tain't  no  use  yo'  eyesight  strainin'; 

'Tain't  fo'  you  no  promise'  land; 

Egypt  won't  nebber  turn  into  Canaan. 

Oh,  whar'll  I  lay  my  heart  down? 
Oh,  wharll  I  lay  my  heart  down? 

Eden  home  is  far  away. — 
Oh,  nebber  mind! 
I'll  lay  my  heart  down, 

Down  in  de  lap  ob  ol9  Virgin-ee-ay! 

While  this  Chorus  is  growing  louder,  out  of  the  dark 
ness — one  by  one — lanterns  begin  to  shine,  cast 
ing  mysterious  shadows  through  the  colonnade, 
gradually  revealing  grouped  forms  and  colour 
ful  movements  of  festal  preparation. 


FIFTH  ACTION 

Like  a  moving  frieze  in  the  background — to  and  fro 
between  house  and  kitchen — Negroes  are  pass 
ing,  some  in  gay  liveries,  others  with  bright  body- 


80  WASHINGTON  [ACT  I 

cloths,  that  set  off  the  burnished  ebony  of  their 
limbs.  All  bear  on  their  heads,  or  in  their 
hands,  trenchers  and  trays,  heaped  with  dishes 
from  the  meal  indoors,  from  which  the  hum  of 
after-supper  talk  and  laughter  resounds  through 
the  open  house-door. 

Among  the  Negroes  are  MAMMY  SAL,  ZEKIEL  and 
ISAIAH. 

MAMMY  SAL — appearing  slightly  older  than  before — 
resplendent  in  pied  head-gear,  bustles  proudly 
in  her  overseering. 

Through  the  Chorus  as  it  dies  away,  her  voice  is  heard 
— in  half -chanted  cadence — speaking  to  the  pass 
ing  Figures. 

MAMMY   SAL 

Keep  on  a-movin'  on:  ri'chon  in,  ri'chon  in:  keep 
on  a-movin'  on  in,  dar!  0  Zekiel,  now's  de  glory  we 
been  waitin'.  De  bride  an'  de  groom,  de  groom  an' 
de  bride — blessed  be  de  bride  an'  de  bridegroom! 

ZEKIEL 

Big  doin's,  Mammy  Sal:  sho  big  doin's  dis  yere 
night  at  de  home  manshin! 

MAMMY   SAL 

Wen  de  man  he  bring  de  noo  woman  home,  w'en 
de  massa  he  bring  home  de  noo  missy-bride — praise 
de  Lo'd  ob  Crayshun! — den  shall  de  feas'  be  spread, 
an'  de  fiddle  he's  say  Glory!  an'  de  feet  dey's  holler 


ACT  I]  WASHINGTON  81 

Amen!  an'  de  evenin'  stars  dey's  all  grab  a-han's,  fo' 
ter  sing  de  Cray  shun  Hallelujah! 

ZEKIEL 

An'  I  done  hear  tell,  Mammy  Sal,  w'at  de  war  she's 
all  ober,  an'  de  Injuns  dey's  got  lickt  an'  got  de  'ligion, 
so's  Marse  Corn'l  Washin'n  done  could  put  on  's  silk 
stockin's,  and  wed  'is  lady-bride  down  de  W'ite  House. 

MAMMY   SAL 

An'  you  done  hear  tell  de  gospel  troof,  Zekiel: 

War-fightin' — done  gone  forebber: 

Hang  up  de  musket-gun! 
Weddin'  an'  feas-a-tin'  comin'  now  forebber: 

Take  down  de  fiddle-bow! 

0  honey  Marse  George! — an'  him  now  de  bride 
groom,  w'at  his  ole  Mammy  Sal  done  feed  up  wid  de 
co'n  pone,  in  de  boy -time  ob  's  years! 

ZEKIEL 
But  w'ar'  de  bride? 

MAMMY   SAL 

Wat!  you  ain't  seen  her  yit?  Watch  out:  he's 
a-bringin'  her  now  wid  de  neighbours  an'  gues's. 
Dey's  a-comin'  ou'chere,  fo'  ter  dance  de  welcome- 
home  rinktums. 

ZEKIEL 

But  w'ich-a-one  be  ri'chenough  Missy  Washin'n? 


82  WASHINGTON  [Aer  I 

MAMMY   SAL 

Watch  out,  I'm  a-tellin'  you,  f o'  de  rose-flower  lady, 
wid  de  two  li'l  bud-flower  chilluns.  De  boy-chile,  he 
Marse  Jack  Custis;  an'  de  gal-chile  sister,  she  Missy 
Patty;  an'  dey  lady-mudder — w'at  was  Missy  Martha 
Custis — she  ri'chenough  now  Marse  George'  bride — 
Missy  Washin'n.  [Turning  to  the  tray -bearers.] 
Keep  on  a-movin'  on,  dar:  ri'chon  in,  now! 

[While  MAMMY  SAL  has  been  speaking,  there 
has  come  forth  from  the  house  a  happy  throng  of 
Guests,  chiefly  young  people,  who  gather  buzzing 
on  the  grass  and  about  the  colonnade — their  old- 
time  gowns  and  buckles  gleaming  in  the  lantern- 
shine. 

Among  the  last — preceded  down  the  steps  by 
a  FIDDLER,  who  treads  backward  before  them, — 
come  GEORGE  and  MARTHA  WASHINGTON,  in 
their  wedding  costumes. 

Riding  high  on  his  left  shoulder,  WASHING 
TON  carries  a  little  GIRL;  before  him — and  next 
to  the  FIDDLER — a  little  BOY  bears  the  fiddle; 
while  WASHINGTON,  with  his  right  hand,  escorts 
the  Bride  to  the  centre  middleground. 

There  the  FIDDLER,  mounts  a  table  against  a 
column,  while  a  clamour  of  shouts  goes  up  from 
the  GUESTS.] 

THE   GUESTS 

The  bride!     Long  live  the  bride!     God  save  the 
groom! 


ACT  I]  WASHINGTON  83 

WASHINGTON 

[Lifting  the  little  BOY  upon  his  right  shoul 
der.] 

Friends,  permit  me  to  present  these  mascots  of  Mt. 
Vernon — Mistress  Patty  and  Master  Jack. 

[The  GUESTS  applaud;  the  CHILDREN  wave 
from  their  high  seats.] 
They  shall  preside  with  the  Fiddler! 

[Gaily,  he  swings  the  CHILDREN  from  his 
shoulders  upon  the  table. 

The   GUESTS   applaud   again,   and   CAPTAIN 
JOHN  POSEY  cries  out  from  among  them:~\ 

CAPTAIN    JOHN 

The  bride!     Speech  from  the  bride! 
[The  GUESTS  take  up  the  call.] 

MARTHA   WASHINGTON 

[Laughing,  lifts  the  keys  at  her  girdle,  and 
jingles  them.] 

Nay,  my  dears,  not  from  me!  In  the  house  of  the 
Washingtons,  I  am  Keeper  of  the  Keys,  but  the 
Speaker  of  the  House  is  the  Colonel. 

[She  makes  a  low  courtesy  to  WASHINGTON.] 

POSEY 

Three  cheers  for  Colonel  George  and  his  lady! 
Hip,  hip  [ALL:  "Hurray!"],  Hip  hip  [ALL: 
"Hurray r9],  Hip  hip  [ALL:  "Hurray!"]. 


84  WASHINGTON  [ACT  I 

WASHINGTON 

Neighbours,  my  friends,  in  the  name  of  Mistress 
Washington  and  myself,  I  return  your  welcome.  The 
gates  of  Mt.  Vernon  shall  always  swing  both  ways: — 
inward,  to  welcome  our  neighbours;  outward,  to  carry 
our  neighbourly  Godsend  as  far  as  the  road  winds. 
And  now  happily  our  wishes  are  granted  us,  within 
and  without.  These  personal  joys  are  sanctified  by 
public  peace. 

[MURMURS   FROM    THE    GUESTS:     "Amen!" 
"Praise  be  for  that!"  etc.] 

Our  country,  too,  holds  house-warming:  her  long 
wars  are  over.  We  have  offered  her  our  lives  in  bat 
tle  for  the  only  goal  free  men  of  America  will  fight 
for — unrankling  peace. 

[THE  GUESTS:     "Hear,  hear!"     "You've  won 
it  for  us,  Colonel!"  etc.] 

And  so,  on  this  gracious  May  night,  the  repose  of  a 
great  continent  likens  the  repose  of  our  hearts:  no 
bloody  massacres  impend;  no  cries  ef  persecution 
call  us  to  take  arms.  Here,  at  last,  we  are  camped 
at  home,  where  now  we  may  set  our  bayonets  as  chim 
ney-spits,  to  turn  roast  fowl;  and  our  swords  in  scythe- 
handles,  to  trim  a  dancing-green;  and  practise  our 
marching  orders — in  a  Virginia  reel. 

[THE  GUESTS:     "The  reel!"     "On  with  the 
reel!"] 

[WASHINGTON  turns,  with  a  bow,  to  MARTHA.] 
How  say  you,  Patsy, — are  we  partners? 


ACT  I]  WASHINGTON  85 

MARTHA 

Partners,  George, — as  long  as  the  Fiddler  shall 
play. 

WASHINGTON 

Ho,  then,  Master  Fiddler,  strike  up:  and  mind  you 
don't  stop — short  o'  doomsday! 

[From  his  raised  place  beside  the  two  CHIL 
DREN,  the  FIDDLER  flourishes  his  bow,  and  puts 
fiddle  to  chin. 

In  the  background,  the  Negroes  look  on,  grin- 
ning  and  excited. 

Choosing  partners,  the  Guests  take  places  for 
a  Virginia  reel — GEORGE  and  MARTHA  WASH 
INGTON  as  first  couple. 

At  stroke  of  the  fiddle,  they  begin  joyously 
to  dance,  and — spangling  the  lantern-lit  dark — 
dance  on,  while  the  Curtain  falls.] 


END   OF   ACT   I 


ACT  II 


ACT  II 
SIXTH  ACTION 

Before  the  curtain  rises,  a  deep,  muffled  explosion  be 
hind  it  has  ushered  a  confusion  of  sounds  from 
within:  Jangling  and  tolling  of  bells,  half  artic 
ulate  shouts  and  bursts  of  singing,  babble  of  jeer 
ing  voices  and  beating  of  drums, — these  are  min 
gled  with  the  cracking  percussion  of  musketry 
and  the  long  far  roll  of  cannonading. 

So,  amid  obscurity  and  vague  din,  indeterminate  as 
noises  heard  in  dreams,  one  hardly  observes  the 
rise  of  the  curtain  upon  a  lurid  scene,  throughout 
the  acting  of  which  only  occasional  glimpses 
(caught  from  the  flare  of  a  torch  or  a  pole-lan 
tern)  reveal  in  turmoil  the  passing  and  grouping 
of  Revolutionary  figures,  that  appear  less  like 
real  men,  women  and  children  than  their  images 
conjured  behind  the  closed  eye-lids  of  fevered 
sleep. 

First,  in  the  distance,  drawing  nearer,  Voices  of  Men 
ire  heard  singing  in  uproar. 

THE   SINGERS 

Oh,  the  birds  of  the  air  and  the  fish  of  the  sea 

To  Adam,  old  Adam,  our  Lord  He  gave  free, 

89 


90  WASHINGTON  [Acx  II 

Till  the  lord  of  taxation 
Cried,  "/  made  creation! 
I  will  take  for  my  dish 
Every  fowl,  every  fish." 

Derry  down,  down!     Hey,  derry  down! 

VOICES 

[Of  persons  dimly  seen  in  the  foreground.] 
Here  they  come — the  Liberty  Boys!     Hurray! 
Who's  that  they're  riding  on  the  pole? 
A  Tory:  he's  a  Tory!     They've  stripped  him  naked. 
He's  tarred  and  feathered. 

Here  they  come!     Hoho, — see  the  Tory  King-bird! 

[Whirled  by  in  the  flashing  of  lanterns,  a  fan 
tastic  human  Form,  blackened  and  stuck  all  with 
feathers,  rides  high  on  a  pole  borne  on  the  shoul 
ders  of  Young  Men,  who  rush  past  and  off  the 
scene,  still  yelling  their  song.] 

THE    LIBERTY   BOYS 

So  the  sons  of  old  Adam,  with  Liberty  Tree 
Tossed  the  fish  in  the  air  and  the  fowl  in  the  sea, 

Crying,  "Lord  of  foul  weathers, 

Your  fish  shall  wear  feathers 

Till  the  tar  of  your  tax 

Melts  offen  their  backs." 

Derry  down,  down!     Hey,  derry  down! 

VOICES 
I — They'll  moult  that  bird  in  the  duck  pond. 


ACT  II]  WASHINGTON  91 

II — They'll  be  back  soon  and  join  us.     Who's  next? 

Ill— Old  Myles  Cooper. 

II— What— the  College  President? 

Ill — Aye,  we'll  tar  him  next:  he's  a  Tory. 

IV — He's  inside  there  now,  but  we're  layin'  for  him. 

A  VOICE 

[Calling  like  a  Street-Crier.] 
Ballad!     Buy  your  penny -ballad ! 

[Carrying  a  bunch  of  narrow  paper  strips,  the 
tattered  Figure  of  QUILLOQUON  is  glimpsed  mov 
ing  among  others  in  the  dimness9  hawking  ballads 
and  reciting  snatches  of  them.] 
Hearken,  patriots! 

'That  land  of  slaves,  where  snares  are  laid, 
There  royal  rights  all  right  defeat: 

They  taxed  my  sun,  they  taxed  my  shade, 
They  taxed  the  wretched  crumbs  I  eat; 

'They  taxed  my  hat,  they  taxed  my  shoes, 

Fresh  taxes  still  on  taxes  grew; 
They  would  have  taxed  my  very  nose 

Had  I  not  fled,  dear  friends,  to  you.' 

A  VOICE 

[Followed  by  laughter.] 
Sure,  then,  even  your  nose  ain't  safe  over  here. 


92  WASHINGTON  [Acr  II 

OTHER   VOICES 

[One} 

'Whoever  would  give  up  essential  liberty  to  pur 
chase  a  little  temporary  safety,  deserves  neither  lib 
erty  nor  safety.' 

[Several} 

Right!  right! 

[Three  in  Conversation] 

I.  'Can  you  conceive  a  greater  absurdity:  Three 
millions  of  people  running  to  their  seacoast  every 
time  a  ship  arrives  from  London,  to  know  what  por 
tion  of  liberty  they  should  enjoy?' 

H.  'And  all  because  of  a  King!' 

III.  'And  what  hath  a  King  to  do,  more  than  make 
war,  give  away  places,  impoverish  the  nation  and  set 
it  by  the  ears?' 

I.  'A  pretty  business,  indeed,  for  a  man  to  be  al 
lowed  eight  hundred  thousand  sterling  for.' 

II.  'And  worshipped  into  the  bargain — ha!' 

THE   VOICE    OF   QUILLOQUON 

Ballad!     Get  your  penny  ballad! 

'0  Boston  wives  and  maids,  draw  near  and  see 
Our  delicate  Souchong  and  Hyson  tea; 
Buy  it,  my  charming  girls,  fair,  black  or  brown, — 
If  not,  we'll  cut  your  throats  and  burn  your  town.' 

VOICES 
I.  Tom  Paine  has  the  right  of  it:     'Government, 


ACT  II]  WASHINGTON  93 

like  dress,  is  the  badge  of  lost  innocence — a  mode 
rendered  necessary  by  the  inability  of  moral  virtue  to 
govern  the  world.' 

II.  And  yet  they  put  their  soldiers  to  govern  us. 

I.  'Aye,  forsooth!  but  military  power  is  by  no 
means  calculated  to  convince  the  understandings  of 
men.  It  may  perhaps  in  another  part  of  the  world 
affright  women  and  children  and  weak  men  out  of 
their  senses,  but  it  will  never  awe  a  sensible  American 
tamely  to  surrender  his  liberty.' 

III.  That's  what  Sam  Adams  told  'em  in  Boston. 

[On  the  left,  raised  suddenly  from  the  ground, 
appears  an  improvised  pulpit  of  black,  into 
which  a  black- gowned  Figure  mounts  and  intones 
loudly — in  the  voice  of  QUILLOQUON:] 

THE    GOWNED    FIGURE 

[Quilloquon] 
Brethren  of  the  Congregation! 

THE    CROWD 

The  Preacher!     Listen  to  the  Preacher! 

THE    GOWNED    FIGURE 

[Quilloquon] 
Give  ear  unto  my  parable! 

[Raising  aloft  a  great  volume.] 
Hark  to  the  scriptures  of  Jonathan,  the  son  of  John, 
and  father  of  Samuel,  uncle  of  tribes  to  be: 


94  WASHINGTON  [Acx  II 

Lo,  my  text  is  from  'The  First  Book  of  the  Ameri 
can  Chronicles  of  the  Times.' 

[Opening  the  volume,  he  reads  by  the  light  of 
a  lantern  held  by  one  of  the  crowd.] 
'And  behold!     When  the  tidings  came  to  the  great 
city  that  is  afar  off,  how  the  men  of  Boston,  even  the 
Bostonites,  had  arose  a  great  multitude,  and  destroyed 
the  Tea,  and  cast  it  into  the  midst  of  the  Sea — 

[The  CROWD  murmur  and  laugh.] 
'Then  the  Lord  the  King  waxed  exceeding  wroth, 
'And  he  assembled  together  the  Princes,  the  judges, 
all  the  rulers  of  the  people, 

'And  they  smote  their  breasts  and  said,  "These  men 
fear  thee  not,  0  King,  neither  have  they  worshipped 
the  Tea  Chest,  which  thou  hast  set  up,  whose  length 
was  three  cubits,  and  the  breadth  thereof  one  cubit  and 
a  half. 

[A  VOICE  intones  from  the  crowd:     "Miser 
able  sinners!"] 

'  "Now,  therefore,  make  a  decree  that  their  harbours 
be  blocked  up,  that  their  merchants  may  be  broke, 
that  their  ships  that  goeth  upon  the  waters  may  be 
sunk  in  the  depth  thereof,  that  their  cods  and  their  oil 
may  stink,  for  that  they  have  rebelled  against  thee." 
[A  VOICE:     "Mercy  upon  us!" 
OTHER  VOICES,  in  groaning  unison:     "Miser 
able  sinners!"] 

'And  it  came  to  pass  that  the  King  harkened  to  these 
'sons  of  Belial. 


ACT  II]  WASHINGTON  95 

'Then  arose  Mordecai,  the  Benjaminite,  who  was 
fourscore  and  five  years  old,  a  wise  man,  an  astrol 
oger — 

[A  VOICE:     "Old  Ben  Franklin,  I  bet  ye! — 
He  can  fly  a  kite  that'll  blow  kings  to  thunder 
over  there  before  doom's  day." 
OTHER  VOICES:     "Amen!"] 
'And  the  Benjaminite  said, 

*  "0  King,  they  hide  the  truth  from  thee,  and  wrong 
fully  accuse  the  men  of  Boston. — 0  King,  if  thou  art 
wise,  thou  wilt  understand  these  things." 

'But  behold!  one  of  the  King's  counsellors  said, 
"Thou  liest. 

*  "Hearken,  0  King!     The  men  of  New  England 
are  stiff  necked  and  as  stubborn  hogs;  they  are  worse 
than  all  the  plagues  of  Egypt:     They  go  to  and  fro 
in  the  evening  and  grin  like  a  dog.     Surely,  0  King, 
the  spirit  of  Oliver  or  the  devil  is  got  in  them." 

[A  VOICE:     "Aye — Oliver  Cromwell's 
devil!"} 

'And  behold  the  Rulers  of  the  People  cried  out 
vehemently,  "Persecute  them!" 

'And  they  sent  their  battering  rams  against  the  city, 
and  their  cannon,  which  bellowed  out  fire  and  smoke 
and  brimstone. 

'And  they  planted  these  on  the  neck  of  the  Boston- 
ites  and  laid  siege  against  it. 

'And  they  made  mouths  and  said,  "Let  us  pinch 
them  by  famine,  and  they  will  surely  give  up." 


96  WASHINGTON  [Acr  II 

[Groans  from  the  CROWD.] 

'And  they  drummed  with  their  drums  and  piped 
with  their  pipes,  and  they  abused  the  young  children 
of  Boston,  calling  them  Yankees. 

'And  the  young  men  said,  "We  will  not  bear  this! 
Seven  times  have  they  vexed  us,  and  they  gape  as  it 
were  a  ramping  lion;  let  us  go  and  smite  the  heathen." 
[VOICES:  "Amen!99  "Hip  and  thigh!99] 

'But  the  Benjaminite,  the  wise  man,  said,  "Nay,  my 
sons,  pluck  up  your  hearts  like  young  unicorns.  Let 
us  bow  not  down  to  the  Tea  Chest,  but  let  us  send  Mes 
sengers  to  all  the  coasts  of  our  brethren  the  Ameri- 
canites,  to  join  with  us  and  resist  these  rulers — we  that 
be  one  people,  and  serve  one  God — so  that  we  be  not 
slaves.'" 

THE    CROWD 

[With  a  great  shout.'] 

Aye — aye — Amen!    The  Americanites!    America! 
[Clamouring  toward  the  PREACHER,  they  over 
whelm  the  improvised  pulpit,  which  flounders 
down  in  the  jumble  of  darkness,  amid  which 
QUILLOQUON  disappears.] 

Hurrah  for  the  Liberty  Boys!  Here  they  come 
back! 

[From  the  left,  the  LIBERTY  BOYS  come  rush 
ing  on  again,  shouting  a  medley  of  cries  as  they 
come.] 

THE    LIBERTY   BOYS 

King's  College!     King's  College!     King's  College! 


ACT  II]  WASHINGTON  97 

Tar  the  President!     He's  a  Tory!— Tar  him! 
The  rack  for  him — the  rack! 
Tory  Cooper!     Old  Clergy  Cooper! 
Be  quiet,  boys:     Sing  him  Liberty  Lullaby! 
[In  Chorus,  they  burst  into  singing:} 

Toss-a-by,  Tory,  on  the  tree-top ; 
When  Freedom  blows,  your  kingdom  will  rock: 
When  Freedom  strikes,  your  kingdom  will  fall, 
And  down  will  come  Tory,  King,  Crown  and  all! 

Toss-a-by,  toss-a-by,  toss-a-by,  Tory! 

Toss-a-by,  toss-a-by,  toss-a-by,  Tory! — 

[The  singing  breaks  off  with  a  roar  of  jeers 
and  cat-calls,  which  turn  to  hisses,  as,  at  the  top 
of  the  steps,  a  gowned  man  is  dragged  forth.} 
Sss!     There  he   is!     Tar  him! — Hang  him!     A 
halter! 

A   LEADER 

[Swinging  a  lantern.} 

Silence!     Be  quiet  there!     Let  the  Reverend  Doc 
tor  speak  his  funeral  oration. 

[Lowering  his  voice  to  a  tone  of  ironic  defer 
ence.} 

Minister  Myles  Cooper,  you  are  called  to  address 
the  pall-bearers. 

[A  white-haired  Man,  gowned  in  black,  steps 
forward  and  speaks  with  a  quiet,  cultivated  enun 
ciation,  raising  his  voice  only  slightly.} 


98  WASHINGTON  [ACT  II 

PRESIDENT    COOPER 

Gentlemen  of  New  York — 

[JEERS:     "Boo!    Boo!     Gentry  be 
damned!"] 

This  is  not  a  proper  occasion  to  call  on  a  Royalist 
to  express  his — 

VOICES 

[Interrupting.] 
Royalist!     He  owns  he's  a  Royalist. 

THE   LEADER 

Be  still,  boys!     Since  his  Reverence  declines  an 
oration,  perchance  he  prefers  a  catechism. 
[With  mock  bow.] 

Beseech  your  Worship  to  inform  our  ignorance: 
What  honourable  institution  is  this? 

COOPER 
This,  Sir,  as  you  well  know,  is  King's  College. 

THE    LEADER 

Wrong,  your  Reverence!     I  know  a  college,  when 
I  see  one;  but  what,  Sir,  is  a  king? 

[VOICES:     "Aye,  what's  a  king?9'] 

COOPER 

[With  polite  and  stinging  contempt.] 
Gentlemen,  you  are  drowned  in  Madeira.     Vilify 
me,  if  you  will;  but  when  you  blaspheme  his  Majesty, 
the  King — 


ACT  II]  WASHINGTON  99 

THE    LEADER 

[Stilling  a  storm  of  hisses,  as  he  waves  a  wine- 
bottle.] 

Wrong  again,  Master  Cooper!  His  Majesty  is 
drowned — not  us.  He  was  lately  drowned  in  a  pot  of 
tea,  which  his  fair  daughter  Columbia  brewed  him 
with  salt-water.  In  consequence,  poor  old  mummy, 
his  royal  remains  are  now  in  a  pickle. 

A   VOICE 

[Followed  by  laughter.] 
Hanoverian  tripe! 

THE    LEADER 

So,  Sir,  henceforth  his  fair  daughter  Columbia  is 
mistress  of  our  vows.  Hail,  Columbia!  In  thy  name 
I  break  now  this  bottle  of  Madeira,  and  baptize  for 
ever  this  shrine  of  American  youth — Columbia  Col 
lege! 

SHOUTS 

Long  live  Columbia  College! 

A  VOICE 
And  to  hell  with  the  Tory  President  of  King's. 

VOICES 

String  him!  Shave  his  head!  Cut  off  his  ears! 
Slit  his  nose !  Strip  him  naked ! 

[With  a  rush,  the  CROWD  surges  up  the  steps, 
at  the  top  of  which  a  lithe  young  FIGURE  sud- 


100  WASHINGTON  [ACT  II 

denly  leaps  upon  a  railing  and  halts  them  with 
voice  and  gesture.] 

THE   YOUNG   FIGURE 

Liberty  Boys !     Wait !     A  word ! 

VOICES 
Hold  on,  there!     Listen! 

THE    LEADER 

Who  are  you? 

THE   YOUNG   FIGURE 

I  am  a  student  of  this  college. — I  ask  to  speak  for  it. 

VOICES 

A  collegian!     A  collegian! 

THE    LEADER 

What's  your  party? 

THE   YOUNG    FIGURE 

The  American  party 

THE    LEADER 

Your  name? 

THE   YOUNG    FIGURE 

Alexander  Hamilton. 

VOICES 
Hamilton — he's  a  patriot. — He  helped  us  move  the 


ACT  II]  WASHINGTON  101 

cannon  by  the  river  this  morning. — Let  him  speak! 

THE    LEADER 

[Sullenly.] 
Do  as  you  like ! 

HAMILTON 

Liberty  Boys!  I  am  one  of  you.  Do  you  remem 
ber  our  battle-cry? 

SHOUTS 
Liberty  and  Reason  for  ever! 

1 '  i  '  '•'  '  • 

HAMILTON 

Liberty  and  Reason:  Those  are  the  noblest  watch 
words  of  mankind:  those  are  the  radiant  lamps  that 
burn  in  our  country's  eyes:  they  guide  her  steps;  they 
reveal  her  goal;  without  them  she  would  be  blind. 
Who,  then,  shall  dare  to  extinguish  them? 

VOICES 
Nobody!     Let  'em  dare! 

HAMILTON 

Fellow-countrymen,  in  our  country's  honour  you 
have  rechristened  my  alma  mater.  I  rejoice  in  her 
new-born  name — Columbia  College.  In  that  name,  I 
rejoice  that  you  have  sought  out  this  man — this  college 
president — to  confront  him  here  on  these  steps  with 
the  irrefutable  arguments  of  Liberty  and  Reason. 


102  WASHINGTON  [Acx  II 

THE    LEADER 

Who's  arguing?     What's  this? 

COOPER 

[Addressing  the  CROWD  and  pointing  at  HAM 
ILTON.] 

Gentlemen,  don't  listen  to  him,  for  God's  sake! 
He's  a  mad  rebel — worse  sober  than  you  others  drunk. 
The  game  is  up,  gentlemen!     Take  me:  ride  me  on 
your  rail,  but  deliver  me  from  his  raillery. 
[Several  start  to  seize  the  old  Man.} 

HAMILTON 

[Intervening.] 
Wait!     Will  you  hear  him — or  me? 

SHOUTS 
You — you!     Gag  the  old  Royalist. 

HAMILTON 

Royalist!  Now  you  have  named  him.  My 
friends,  he  calls  us  rebels,  but  will  the  learned  master 
of  the  college  tell  us — what  is  a  Royalist? 

SHOUTS 

A  crown-kisser — a  tyrant's  boot-licker! 

HAMILTON 

A  man  who  supports  his  monarch  against  his  peo 
ple.  A  Royalist,  then,  himself  is  the  arch-rebel:  a 


ACT  II]  WASHINGTON  103 

rebel  to  Magna  Charta,  a  rebel  to  the  Constitution,  a 
rebel  to  the  ancient  liberties  of  his  own  race. 


A   VOICE 

So  he  is! 

HAMILTON 

For,  mark  you,  friends:  if  there  be  reason  in  liberty, 
rulers  exist  for  their  peoples,  not  peoples  for  their 
rulers;  and  whenever,  wherever  on  this  earth  rulers 
shall  choose  to  argue  the  contrary — 
[The  CROWD  cheers  wildly.] 

rulers  become  rebels  to  their  people,  and  may  take 
the  consequences. 

SHOUTS 

Aye,  aye,  aye!  To  hell  with  rulers  and  kings! 
Liberty  and  Reason  for  ever! 

HAMILTON 

You  hear,  Master  President:  You  behold  the  con 
sequences  in  America. 

COOPER 

Aye,  Sir,  I  hear  your  counter  arguments — the  yelp 
ing  of  curs,  the  belling  of  hounds  for  blood.  I  behold 
you,  American  patriots: — a  mob  of  bankrupts  and 
shopkeepers,  attorneys  in  tatters,  cobblers  without 
shoes,  tinkers  of  broken  lanterns — prolitarian  up 
starts! 


104  WASHINGTON  [Acx  II 

SHOUTS 

String  him  up!     Away  with  him! 

HAMILTON 

Stay!     Hear  him  out! 

[The  CROWD  pauses,  but  growls  with  menace.] 

COOPER 

Aye,  young  bullies,  cowards!  I  am  an  old  man,  a 
peaceful  minister  of  God.  You  attack  me,  an  hun 
dred  to  one.  But,  praise  God  and  King  George,  I  am 
a  British  Royalist,  afraid  of  no  Yankee  ragtails.  So 
here,  I  stand,  alone:  alone,  and  I  challenge  you  to 
defend  yourselves.  Liberty  and  Reason — those  are 
your  rebel  appeals  to  Ribaldry  and  Madness. 

[  The  CROWD  roars  terribly.     HAMILTON  leaps 
on  the  rail  again  and  raises  his  lantern.} 

HAMILTON 

Patriots!  You  hear  his  challenge.  Will  you  take 
it? 

SHOUTS 

[Fiercely.] 
Aye,  aye !     We'll  answer  him ! 

HAMILTON 

Bravo,  fellow  Americans! — And  I  will  be  your 
spokesman.  He  has  made  a  brave  stand — a  pathetic 
plea — this  man  of  peace — this  old  Royalist  who  stands 
alone:  all  alone, — except  for  the  army  of  England:  all 


ACT  II]  WASHINGTON  105 

alone,  poor  minister — except  for  the  ministry  of  Great 
Britain;  all,  all  alone,  poor  imperialist — except  for 
the  power  of  the  imported  king  and  the  princes  and 
nobility  and  parliament  and  press  and  embattled  navy 
of  the  mightiest  empire  of  the  world. 

VOICES 
Hear,  hear!     Go  to  it,  boy! 

HAMILTON 

Still,  we  accept  his  challenge — not  as  of  might,  but 
of  right.  Curs,  he  calls  us — hounds  belling  for 
blood:  Are  we  that  breed? 

VOICES 
No,  no.     Damn  him! 

HAMILTON 

We  Americans — are  we  the  watchdogs  that  have 
faced  for  a  century  of  blood  the  fangs  of  wild  beasts, 
the  tomahawks  of  wilder  men,  to  guard  the  frontiers 
of  a  new  world?  Or  has  this  continent  been  defended 
— by  the  King's  fox-hounds  in  Hyde  Park? 

A  VOICE 

[Amid  shrill  whistlings.] 
Hamilton  to  the  death!     Sic  'im,  collegian! 

HAMILTON 

"Bankrupts,"  "Attorneys  in  tatters":  Aye,  Sir:  we 
own  to  your  impeachment. — Bankrupted  by  whom? 


106  WASHINGTON  [ ACT  II 

VOICES 

The  King!— Parliament! 

HAMILTON 

[Turning  to  the  CROWD.] 
Who  taxed  us  without  representation? 

VOICES 
Parliament !     Parliament ! 

HAMILTON 

Who  imposed  the  Stamp  Act? 

A   SHOUT 

Royalists !     Royalists ! 

HAMILTON 

Who  made  them  repeal  it? 

A   GREATER   SHOUT 

Americans! 

HAMILTON 

Who  forged  new  fetters:  forced  us  to  choose  slav 
ery  or  freedom,  and  when  we  rejected  slavery — who 
sealed  up  our  harbours,  tore  up  our  charters,  lodged 
soldiers  in  our  homes  and  confiscated  our  rights  as 
citizens? 

SHOUTS 
The  King.     The  Ministry !     Tyrants ! 


ACT  II]  WASHINGTON  107 

HAMILTON 

Bankrupt — aye,  in  bread,  but  not  in  brains.  Tat 
tered  attorneys,  yes — and  the  tatters  we  wear  are 
fouled  rags  of  the  once  noble  vestments  of  Britain's 
majesty;  but  the  rights  our  intellects  plead,  and  our 
passions  adore,  are  validated  by  the  majesty  of  man 
kind.  They  are  not  to  be  rummaged  for  among  old 
parchments,  or  musty  records.  They  are  written,  as 
with  a  sunbeam,  in  the  whole  volume  of  human  nature, 
by  the  hand  of  Divinity  itself,  and  can  never  be  erased 
or  obscured  by  mortal  power? 

A  VOICE 

[From  the  CROWD — now  held  in  a  deep-breath 
ing  silence.] 
Amen! 

HAMILTON 

Cobblers  and  tinkers — and  why  not?  Cobblers 
without  shoes — we  shall  mend  the  wing-torn  sandals 
of  Liberty,  that  she  may  run  once  more  among  the 
stars;  tinkers — we  shall  make  old  lanterns  new  again 
and,  like  Aladdin,  make  genii,  instead  of  men,  the 
slaves  of  Reason. 

VOICES 
Liberty  and  Reason  for  ever! 

HAMILTON 

Aye.  Liberty  and   Reason — so  we  return  to  our 


108  WASHINGTON  [Aer  II 

watchwords.  But  this  Royalist  has  challenged  us. 
He  says,  when  we  use  those  watchwords,  we  are  hypo 
crites. 

A   VOICE 

He  lies  in  his  throat. 

HAMILTON 

Bravo!     Shall  we  prove  to  him  he  lies? 

VOICES 
You  bet! — Make  him  swallow  his  apple. 

HAMILTON 

[Thrusting  COOPER  behind  him  in  the  obscur 
ity  of  the  doorway,  speaks  with  increasing  fer 
vour  and  rapidity.] 

For  us,  he  says,  Liberty  and  Reason  are  Ribaldry 
and  Madness.  Is  it  so?  When  we  preach  Liberty, 
do  we  really  practise — Madness? 

VOICES 

No!  no! 

HAMILTON 

When  we  preach  Reason,  do  we  practise  Ribaldry? 

VOICES 
Never!     Not  us! 

HAMILTON 

Then,  boys  of  Liberty  and  Reason,  he  has  slandered 


ACT  II]  WASHINGTON  109 

us.  He  has  lied.  We  American  patriots  are  no  mob. 
We  are  not  mad — like  Parliament.  We  are  not  ri 
bald — like  the  Royalists.  We  attorneys,  tinkers,  cob 
blers — at  least  our  manners  may  compare  with  a  col 
lege  President's. 

[VOICES:  "Hoho!  I  reckon!"] 
Sometimes,  to  be  sure,  we  poke  our  tongues  in  our 
cheeks.  We  will  play-act  a  mob — in  jest;  we  will 
lullaby  old  helpless  Tories — chaff  'em  for  fun.  We 
have  our  own  humour — home-made;  we  wouldn't  be 
Yankees  without  it.  Yet,  simple  and  merry  as  we  are, 
we  have  not  sold  our  self-respect  to  tyrants,  nor  our 
own  native  dignity  to  kings. — Say,  then,  my  fellow 
Americans!  How  shall  we  heap  confusion  on  this 
man?  How  shall  we  meet  his  cynical  challenge? 
Shall  we  mob-ride  him  on  a  rail,  and  lose  our  chal 
lenged  honour  of  Liberty  and  Reason?  Or  shall  we 
let  him  go  in  liberty — and  win  the  challenge? 

[For  a  moment  follows  an  awkward  silence, 
filled  with  low  murmurs  and  shifting  of  feet. 
Then  a  Voice  cries:  "Win  out  for  us!  Let  him 
go!"  Then  a  confusion  of  muttered  protests  and 
voices:  "Nay,  nay!  He's  a  liar"  drowned  by 
louder,  good-natured  jeers  and  cries  of,  "Sure 
he  is!  Aye — let  him  go!  Let  the  old  fool 
go!" 

Then  suddenly,  through  the  dimness,  up  the 
steps  rushes  the  figure  of  the  LEADER,  and — leap 
ing  on  the  rail — yells  to  the  CROWD  savagely.} 


110  WASHINGTON  [Acr  II 

THE    LEADER 

Let  him  go — you  young  fools?     Damn  you  all,  he's 
gone!     Old  Tory  Cooper  is  gone!     He  has  escaped 
by  the  back  door.     Catch  him! 
[He  jumps  down. 

A  howl  of  exasperation  bursts  from  the 
CROWD. 

In  roaring  tumult,  the  LIBERTY  BOYS  rush  off 
in  the  darkness,  screaming:  "Catch  him!  Ride 
him  to  the  river!" 


(Fifth  Transition) 

From  beside  the  railing,  the  shadowy  form  of 
the  ballad-hawker  (QUILLOQUON)  comes  danc 
ing  down  the  steps,  singing  shrilly  through  the 
uproar:] 

QUILLOQUON 

There  was  a  young  fellow  who  followed  the  plough; 
Sing  halifor  band  if  I  do: 
Sing  bands  and  rebels  and  rebels  and  troubles, 
Sing  new,  new! 

[In  the  foreground,  he  is  joined  by  a  BOY  and 
a  GIRL  from  the  dispersing  Crowd,  and  there, 
while  the  last  lanterns  are  disappearing,  he  takes 


QUILLOQUON 

AS    BALLAD-HAWKER 


ACT  II]  WASHINGTON  111 

their  hands  in  a  capering  round  dance,  still  sing 
ing:] 

The  Devil  set  fire  to  his  rick  and  his  mow; 
Sing  nickel,  sing  nackel,  sing  new: 
Sing  bands  and  rebels  and  rebels  and  troubles, 
Sing  new,  new! 

Ho,  neighbours,  fetch  axes  and  buckets  and  mire! 
What  help  is  my  plough,  when  my  farm  is  on  fire? 

Sing  halifor  band  if  I  do: 

Sing  bands  and  rebels  and  rebels  and  troubles, 
Sing  new,  new! 

[During  this  dance  and  song,  the  blue  curtains 
of  the  theatre  have  closed  off  the  scene,  shutting 
the  Dancers  outside.] 

The  last  note  of  his  refrain  QUILLOQUON'S  voice  holds 
in  a  long-drawn-out  quaver,  which  is  just  ceasing 
when — from  within — the  final  three  notes  of  the 
tune  are  heard  repeated  by  a  flute-like  music. 

QUILLOQUON  pauses,  stock-still.  Raising  one  finger 
for  the  Children  to  listen,  he  sings  again: 

(Sing  new,  new!9 

From  within  comes  the  flute-like  echo. 
Slyly,  QUILLOQUON  takes  out  his  own  flute,  and  step 
ping  near  the  curtains  plays  on  it  the  three  notes. 


112  WASHINGTON  [ACT  II 

Once  more,  from  within,  they  are  repeated. 

With  a  knowing  gesture,  QUILLOQUON  parts  the  cur 
tains  just  enough  to  stick  his  head  through  behind 
them,  jerks  it  out  again,  beckons  to  the  Children, 
holds  a  narrow  slit  open  and  signs  for  them  to 
peep  through  with  him. 

They  do  so,  then  draw  back  and  look  up  at  him  with 
an  awed  smile. 

He  whispers  to  them,  places  the  little  GIRL'S  hand  on 
the  left  curtain,  the  BOY'S  on  the  right,  makes  a 
gesture  of  silence,  waves  to  them  a  narrow  strip 
of  ballad-paper,  and — stealing  through  between 
the  curtains — disappears. 

And  now — as  notes  of  a  flute  are  heard  again  from 
within — the  GIRL  and  BOY  begin  to  draw  the  cur 
tains  back,  and  move  with  them,  on  either  side,  to 
the  wings  of  the  stage,  where — from  left  and 
right — they  peer  momentarily  at  the  scene. 


SEVENTH  ACTION 

The  scene  reveals  the  colonnade  at  Mt.  Vernon  (as  in 
Act  I). 

Here,  in  the  background,  piled  at  left  and  right,  lug 
gage  and  travelling  boxes  are  stacked. 

On  a  chest,  in  the  middle  ground,  sits  WASHINGTON. 

He  is  alone. 


ACT  II]  WASHINGTON  113 

Raised  to  his  lips  he  holds  a  flute;  across  one  of  his 
knees  lies  a  narrow  strip  of  ballad-paper. 

He  is  playing  the  music  of  'Bands  and  Rebels9 — mid 
way  of  which  he  pauses,  lets  his  hand  with  the 
flute  sink  beside  him,  and  stares  with  grave  in 
tensity  at  the  ballad-strip — his  lips  only  moving. 

In  the  sunlight,  his  strong  features  show  lines  more 
mature  than  formerly.  He  is  clad  in  the  buff- 
and-blue  of  a  Colonial  colonel:  his  head  is  bare; 
his  long  locks,  tied  in  a  queue,  are  touched 
slightly  with  grey;  his  hat  and  cape  are  laid  near 
him. 

For  a  moment  the  silence  is  profound. 

Then,  raising  his  flute,  he  continues  playing  the  mel 
ody. 

With  its  close,  as  a  trilling  repetition  of  the  last  three 
notes  sounds  in  the  air  above  him,  a  Head  peeps 
out  from  the  upper  window  of  the  kitchen.  It  is 
QUILLOQUON.  At  his  mouth  he  holds  his  flute. 
His  eyes  are  laughing. 

As  WASHINGTON  glances  up  curiously,  QUILLOQUON'S 
head  disappears. 

Meantime  from  the  house,  MARTHA  WASHINGTON  has 
come  out. 

She  is  dressed  in  simple  homespun.  Under  a  small, 
white  cap,  her  brown  hair  is  still  untouched  with 
grey,  and  her  dark  eyes  flash  youthfully  as  they 
look  toward  the  seated  figure. 

In  her  hand  she  carries  a  sheathed  sword  and  girdle. 


114  WASHINGTON  [ACT  II 

As  she  draws  near,  WASHINGTON  by  a  gesture  motions 
for  her  to  listen. 

MARTHA 

[Looking  up  with  him.] 
A  Kentucky  cardinal! 

WASHINGTON 

Close  by. 

MARTHA   " 

They  always  sing  in  the  sycamore.  Spring  sets  'em 
at  their  old  tricks  again. 

WASHINGTON 

And  us  at  ours,  Patsy.  The  first  flute  I  ever  played 
was  a  willow  whistle.  I  cut  it  by  the  river.  I  used  to 
try  fooling  the  mocking-birds.  I'm  trying  my  hand 
again  now. 

MARTHA 

I  was  looking  for  your  flute,  George. 

[Taking  it  from  his  hand.]  . 
I've  come  to  pack  it  for  you,  and  bring  you  this. 

[She  sits  beside  him.] 

WASHINGTON 

[Slowly,  looking  doivn  at  the  sword.] 
Thanks.     I'll  want  'em  both,  I  reckon, — before  I 
get  back. 

[A  medley  of  bird-like  flutings  bursts  through 


ACT  II]  WASHINGTON  115 

the  sunlight  above  them,  and  continues  to  bubble 
forth  while  they  talk  below. 

Restraining  a  surge  of  emotion,  WASHINGTON 
looks  up  again.] 

Listen  there:  That  fellow's  going  it  good.  He 
must  have  just  found  a  mate. 

MARTHA 

Nonsense,  my  dear:  he  found  her  long  ago. 
There's  a  couple  has  nested  by  that  chimney  every 
season — these  sixteen  years. 

WASHINGTON 

Sixteen  years — the  same  old  pair? 

MARTHA 

I'll  stake  my  oath  on  'em.  I've  named  'em  George 
and  Patsy.  April  always  finds  'em  here,  busy  home- 
building — though  George  he  flies  away  at  times  to 
forage. 

[Laying  her  hand  on  his,  she  smiles — a  bit 
wistfully.] 

But  he  don't  stay  long  away,  and  he  always  comes 
back  whistling. 

WASHINGTON 

[Smiling  back  at  her.] 

I'll  warrant  him!  And  I'll  stake  my  oath,  my  dear, 
on  all  his  foragings  he  keeps  a  bird's-eye-view  of  Mt. 
Vernon,  and  maps  his  trail  by  a  sycamore  tree,  a  bend 


116  WASHINGTON  [Aer  II 

in  the  river,  a  home  chimney,  and  the  little  white 
cap  of  Patsy,  his  mate. 

[Lifting  his  face  from  hers,  he  closes  his  eyes, 
tensely,  murmuring  low.] 
0  God,  to  whom  men  pray! 

MARTHA 

[After  a  moment  of  stillness.] 
Will  it  be  long  this  time?— Will  it,  George? 

WASHINGTON 

A  long  trail  into  the  wilderness!  Playing  that 
flute  there,  Patsy,  I've  been  watching  it  all — far  off. 

MARTHA 

Watching  what,  George? 

WASHINGTON 

[Rising  slowly  to  his  feet.] 

A  smoke  of  darkness,  and  our  country  burning: 
a  forest  of  men  on  fire! — Wild  beasts  broke  from 
their  lairs. — A  mad  bully  with  a  crown,  driving  his 
yoke  of  swine  and  mules,  to  fight  the  flames  with  fish- 
oil. — Leaders,  a  few  brave  lads,  crying  in  the  wilder 
ness  for  axes,  to  fell  a  path  in  the  jungle,  and  save  the 
homes  of  millions. 

[Pointing  to  the  strip  of  ballad-paper,  on  the 
ground.] 
There!     Tis  all  there — in  a  penny  ballad. 


ACT  II]  WASHINGTON  117 

MARTHA 

[Lifting  it.] 
What's  this? 

WASHINGTON 

An  old  song — and  a  new.     You'll  remember  it. 

MARTHA 

[Reading.] 

"There  was  a  young  fellow  who  followed  the  plough, 
The  Devil  set  fire  to  his  rick  and  his  mow." — 

WASHINGTON 

[Peering  over  her  shoulder  at  the  ballad  slip.] 
"Ho,  neighbours,  fetch  axes  and  buckets  and  mire! — 

[Taking  it  from  her.] 
What  help  is  my  plough,  when  my  farm  is  on  fire?" 

[Crumpling  the  paper,  he  flings  it  away.] 
Aye,  Patsy  my  own,  'tis  over — our  sixteen  years! 
No  more  nest-building  in  the  mow,  for  now  'tis  save 
the  farm,  and  'sing  bands  and  rebels  and  rebels  and 
troubles,'  and  good-bye  to  the  old  time  together. 

MARTHA 

[Rises,  with  a  glow  and  a  smile.] 
Why,  then,  George,  'tis  time  to  'sing  new,  new' 
together. — I'll  pack  this  flute  in  your  saddle.     So,  all 
the  long  trail,  lad,  you've  only  to  whistle  for  your 
mate — 

[She  whistles  the  last  three  notes  of  the  ballad: 


118  WASHINGTON  [ ACT  II 


and  before  you  can  say  Jack  Robinson!  you'll  be  see 
ing  her. 

[Above  them,  from  the  window,  QUILLOQUON 
with  his  flute  repeats  the  three  notes.] 

WASHINGTON 

[With  a  boyish  gladness.] 

Aye,  listen! — like  that  bird!  and  I'll  be  standing 
beside  you  under  the  sycamore.  And  you,  when  I'm 
gone,  and  you  hear  that  fellow  in  the  tree  bough — 

MARTHA 

I'll  be  flying  to  you  under  his  wing,  even  were  it 
dead  winter  and  all  the  world  buried. 


WASHINGTON 

Dear  old  Pats! 

MARTHA 

[Drawing  away  from  his  caress,  and  saluting 
like  the  military.] 

Sergeant  Pat,  Sir, — of  the  Sarvice!  Beggin'  Col 
onel  Washington's  permission,  could  I  have  the  honour 
for  to  buckle-on  his  sword? 


ACT  II]  WASHINGTON  119 

WASHINGTON 

[With  a  laugh.] 
Go  to  it,  Sergeant! 

MARTHA 

[Raising  the  sword  upright,  in  her  right 
hand.] 

To  defend  the  farm,  and  confound  the  Devil — his 
Majesty:  swear  to  heaven  on  this  hilt,  Colonel  Wash 
ington  ! 

WASHINGTON 

[With  a  grave  smile.] 
I  swear  on  this  hilt — to  heaven. 

[Bending  over,  he  kisses  her  hand  on  the  hilt.] 

MARTHA 

[Lowering  the  sword — with  twinkling  quick 
ness.] 
But  you  didn't  swear,  Colonel. 

WASHINGTON 
[With  vehemence.] 
Damn  his  Majesty!     Will  that  serve? 

MARTHA 

Aye,  Sir:  Amen! 

[As  she  begins  to  gird  on  his  sword,  MAMMY 
SAL — who  has  come  round  the  kitchen  end  of  the 
colonnade — approaches,  raising  both  arms  to 
ward  them.] 


120  WASHINGTON  [Aer  II 

MAMMY    SAL 

Amen  an'  Hallelujah,  my  chilluns!  Dis  yere  bride 
an'  groom  ob  de  Springtime  dey  ain't  nebber  faded 
in  de  summer-come-after,  and  dey  gwine  keep 
a-bloomin'  in  de  fros'-kill  an'  de  sun-raise-alive-ag'in, 
forebber  and  ebber,  amen! 

[From  the  distance  come  sounds  of  fife  and 
drum.] 

WASHINGTON 

Howdy  mornin',  Mammy  Sal!  What's  that  music 
I  hear  over  yonder? 

MAMMY    SAL 

Dunno,  Marse  George,  jes'  on'y  what-all  Marse  Pat 
rick  Henry  he  say.  He's  acomin'  up  now  from  de  red 
barn,  wid  his  ole  Lo'dship  Marse  Fairfax — talkin' 
mighty  hot  togedder:  He  say  de  del'gachun  folkses 
from  Al'sandria  dey's  tnarchin'  wid  de  music  for  to 
fotch  you  ag'in  to  de  fightin'  far  'way. 

WASHINGTON 

[To  MARTHA.] 
Lord  Fairfax — here? 

MARTHA 

He's  drove  up  from  Greenaway  Court. 

WASHINGTON 

What  for? 


ACT  II]  WASHINGTON  121 

MARTHA 

To  persuade  you  not  to  desert  the  good  king's 
cause. 

WASHINGTON 

Ha — indeed! — Mammy  Sal,  tell  the  farm  overseers 
to  meet  me  at  my  office.  I  have  some  last  instruc 
tions  to  give  before  I  leave. 

MAMMY   SAL 

Yas'r,  Massa.     Jes'  one  jiffy. 

[Taking  something  from  her  girdle.] 
Yere's  what  I  fotch  you,  honey,  fo'  ter  keepsake 
yo'  ole  Mammy  Sal. 

[She  hands  it.] 

WASHINGTON 

[Taking  it.] 
What's  this-yere? 

MAMMY   SAL 

I  reckons  you  'members  it,  Marse  honey.  Dat's 
de  ole  roas'  fowl  spit,  fo'  you  ter  stick  in  yo'  fightin' 
gun. 

WASHINGTON 
[With  a  laugh.] 
Ha!     To  roast  Royal  wild  geese,  eh? 

MAMMY   SAL 

Eb'ry  gander-goose  what  'noys  you,  Marse  George. 


122  WASHINGTON  [Acx  II 

[She  bows  suddenly  on  the  ground  beside  him, 
kissing  his  foot,  then  looking  up  fervently  at 
him,  and  MARTHA.] 

De  Lo'd  He  bless  yo'  feet  in  His  paf ! 

De  Lo'd  He  lead  yo'  feet  up  His  golden  stair! 

An'  de  Lo'd  He  lead  'em  down  ag'in  sho'  to  de  home 
back-do'  ob  yo'  Missy  Bride! 

WASHINGTON 

[Raising  her  up.] 
The  Lord  He  bless  your  heart,  Mammy ! 

MAMMY   SAL 

[Turning  quickly,  hurries  away.] 
Back  home  soon,  honey  belubbed! 

[As  MAMMY  SAL  is  going  to  the  kitchen,  a 
young  Man  comes  from  the  house,  with  a  black 
servant — a  young  fellow  in  scarlet-and-white 
livery  carrying  a  looped  bag.] 

THE   YOUNG   MAN    ^  •-' 

[Calling  to  MARTHA.] 
Mother,  here's  the  saddle-bags. 

[To  WASHINGTON.] 
Shall  Billy  take  'em  to  the  barn,  Sir? 

WASHINGTON 

Yes:  on  my  new  mare — Billy. 


ACT  II]  WASHINGTON  123 

BILLY   THE   SERVANT 

Yas'r:  de  ches'nut  mare. 

WASHINGTON 

And  wait,  Jack;  give  me  that  memorandum. 
[He  takes  out  a  small  pocket  book.] 

JACK    CUSTIS 

Which,  Sir? 

WASHINGTON 

About  that  young  college  mate  of  yours  at  King's 
who  defended  your  Tory  president  from  the  mob. 

JACK 

Yes,  Sir.  He  saved  the  old  fellow,  too,  while  they 
listened.  A  rousing  speech,  Sir.  You'd  have  liked 
it. 

WASHINGTON 

His  name,  you  said — what  was  it? 

JACK 

Alexander  Hamilton. 

WASHINGTON 

[Writing  in  the  book.] 
And  his  address  in  New  York? 

JACK 
In  Maiden  Lane,  I  think,  Sir, — not  far  from  Trin- 


124  WASHINGTON  [Acr  II 

ity  Church.     He  lives  with  a  tailor,  named  Hercules 
Mulligan. 

WASHINGTON 

Good. 

[Putting  away  the  pocket  book,  he  lays  his 
hand  on  young  CUSTIS'  shoulder.] 
Jack,  have  in  mind  your  mother;  keep  exact  ac 
count  of  your  expenditures,  and  curb  your  gaming 
propensities. 

JACK 

Yes,  Sir. 

MARTHA 

Don't  worry,  George. 

[To  JACK.] 

Son,  fetch  me  those  saddle  bags.  The  boxes  will 
go  on  the  coach,  Billy. 

[She  moves,  with  JACK,  toward  the  back 
ground,  where  she  directs  BILLY  concerning  the 
travelling  things.] 

A   VOICE    OUTSIDE 

[Deep-toned  and  vibrant.] 

The  Lord  of  Hosts — the  Lord  of  Hosts,  Sir,  must 
decide  the  issue.  Give  me  liberty,  or  give  me  death: 
that's  what  I  told  'em. 

[On  the  path,  left,  the  one  who  is  speaking  en 
ters — a  Man  of  youthful  middle-age,  magnetic 


ACT  II]  WASHINGTON  125 

in  look  and  gesture — clad  for  riding.  He  is  ac 
companied  by  LORD  FAIRFAX,  now  white-haired 
and  leaning  heavily  on  his  cane — clad  for  walk 
ing. 

As  they  come,  the  sound  of  distant  fifes  and 
drums  is  borne  with  them,  and  grows  louder  at 
intervals  during  the  remainder  of  the  scene.] 

FAIRFAX 

But,  good  God,  Master  Henry,  give  us  time!  The 
Constitution  must  be  readjusted  to  the  growing  col 
onies.  America  has  British  spokesmen  in  parlia 
ment.  Give  'em  time  for  the  needed  reforms. 

PATRICK    HENRY 

Time,  Sir,  for  a  nation's  soul  to  putrefy?  Reforms 
that  rot  are  compost  for  revolution.  Burke  and  Pitt 
speak  for  us  nobly,  but  America  must  have  American 
spokesmen  in  parliament — or  a  parliament  of  her 
own. 

FAIRFAX 

Ah,  there's  George!  There's  George,  bless  him: 
Ae'll  have  common  sense. 

PATRICK    HENRY 

Aye,  Sir:  I'll  wager  he  will. — Mornin'  Colonel! 

[Bowing.] 
Your  servant,  Mistress! 


126  WASHINGTON  [Acr  II 

MARTHA 
Yours,  Sir;  and  yours,  my  lord  Fairfax. 

WASHINGTON 

Ah,  Patrick,  you're  riding  with  me?  Splendid! — 
Your  lordship,  welcome,  Sir!  But  I'm  sorry  you 
catch  me  on  the  go. 

FAIRFAX 
[Consternated.] 
George — no!     No!     You're  not  going. 

WASHINGTON 

I  stop  at  Alexandria — on  my  road  north. 

FAIRFAX 

Lad — laddie! — for  you're  still  just  my  laddie, 
George. — Look  round  you!  Look  yonder — the 
woods  and  the  river:  our  old  hunting  trails.  There's 
Martha:  here's  me,  George:  there's  Jack. — Wife, 
neighbours,  family,  home:  do  these  mean  nothing  any 
more? 

WASHINGTON 

[Staring.] 
Nothing,  Sir?     Nothing? 

FAIRFAX 

Then  why  do  you  root  'em  up — to  burn  in  a  mad 
rabble's  bon-fire? 


ACT  II]  WASHINGTON  127 

WASHINGTON 

Me ! — Root  'em  up?  A  man's  vine  and  fig-tree,  my 
lord,  aren't  pot-plants  to  put  in  his  saddle-bags. 

FAIRFAX 

Then  where  are  you  riding?  What  are  you  dream 
ing  of?  Why  do  you  fight  for  disruption  of  your 
home  and  country? 

WASHINGTON 

I  am  not  dreaming  of  disruption:  I  am  dreaming 
of  justice — and  will  fight  for  it,  if  need  be. 

PATRICK   HENRY 

Aye — and  your  neighbours  with  you!  You  should 
have  heard  him,  Martha,  speaking  on  that  text  in  the 
House  of  Burgesses.  I  never  heard  him  in  such  fet 
tle.  As  for  licking  the  King,  he  was  for  having  it 
out  alone  with  his  namesake — in  a  wrastling  match 
— George  versus  George. 

MARTHA 

[Laughing,  with  JACK.] 

I  would  like  to  drop  the  kerchief  for  that  match. 
I'd  stake  my  George  against  three  of  England — cubits 
for  crowns. 

PATRICK   HENRY 
[Laughing  with  Jack.] 

Bravo!  The  game-cock  will  crow,  even  with  the 
lady-pheasant's  voice. 


128  WASHINGTON  [Acr  II 

JACK 

[With  a  mischievous  glance  toward  WASH 
INGTON.] 

And  Mother's  son  is  told  to  curb  his  gaming  pro 
pensities! 

FAIRFAX 

[Gravely,  looking  from  MARTHA  to  GEORGE.] 
Are  these  my  old  neighbours? 

WASHINGTON 

[Reddening  with  annoyance.'] 
Fighting-blood  makes  fool  speeches,  my  lord:  but 
it  makes — fighters. 

MARTHA 

Even  in  petticoats,  your  lordship. 

FAIRFAX 

[With  growing  heat.] 

And  does  not  that  fighting-blood  of  your  ancestors 
curdle  with  shame  in  your  veins,  to  turn  against  your 
own  race  and  country? 

WASHINGTON 

No,  Sir;  it  boils,  for  shame  of  my  country!  The 
tides  of  English  race  do  not  rise  and  fall  only  on 
Dover  Cliff.  When  England  defends  a  tyrant,  I  am 
an  Anglo-Saxon  who  stands,  with  Freedom,  against 
England:  for  there  is  not  one  of  our  race  that  lives 
worthy  of  it,  who  loves  a  little  island  more  than  lib 
erty. 


ACT  II]  WASHINGTON  129 

FAIRFAX 

That  little  island,  George,  has  been  the  cradle  of 
human  rights. 

WASHINGTON 

True,  Sir — has  been,  and  surely,  I  doubt  not,  shall 
be  again.  But  the  issue  is  larger  than  that.  I  am 
British  to  the  bone,  my  lord,  and  none  more  proud  of 
it.  Aye,  Sir,  because  of  it  I  say,  that  human  rights 
are  more  than  English  race.  And  American  rights 
mean  human  rights — or  nothing.  We  stand  on  a 
great  threshold:  The  cause  we  champion  now  for 
America  must  be  fought  by  all  times  and  peoples — 
and  won,  till  our  planet  itself  is  free.  Our  cause,  my 
lord,  is  noble:  it  is  the  cause  of  mankind. 

FAIRFAX 

Indeed! — /  had  fancied  our  cause  was  a  colonial 
question,  and  America  a  British  dependency. 

WASHINGTON 

No  less,  Sir — but  much  more.  American  soil  is  for 
the  seed  of  Adam,  and  its  harvest — for  the  Creator. 

[The  music  of  fifes  and  drumming  sounds 
close-by,  and  in  the  background  Negroes  and 
Whites  begin  to  gather,  looking  off.] 

JACK   CUSTIS 

[Calls  from  the  colonnade.] 

They're  coming,  Sir — the  delegation  from  Alexan 
dria. 


130  WASHINGTON  [Acx  II 

FAIRFAX 

[With  a  sudden  broken  look  and  gesture  of 
pain.] 

Old  days — old  ways  are  dying,  George:  'tis  fitting 
that  old-timers  should  follow  'em. 
[He  turns  away.] 

WASHINGTON 

[With  quick  emotion,  going  to  him.] 
Old  friendships  are  still  green,  my  dear  lord! 
[He  embraces  the  old  Man.] 

PATRICK   HENRY 

[To  JACK,  in  the  background,  vehemently.] 
The  Lord  of  Hosts — the  Lord  of  Hosts,  my  lad,  beat 
His  drums  at  the  tent  of  David. 

MARTHA 

[Quietly,  to  WASHINGTON,  who  is  just  turning 
from  FAIRFAX  with  twitching  face.] 
George, — there's  a  flute  in  the  saddle,  and  a  nest  in 
the  sycamore. 

WASHINGTON 

[Pressing  her  hand.] 
Patsy! 

[Together,  they  draw  slightly  aside,  as  through 
the  central  arch  of  the  colonnade — between  the 


ACT  II]  WASHINGTON  131 

piled  travelling  boxes — appears  a  band  of  fifers, 
playing  the  tune  of  'Bands  and  Rebels,9  led  by 
a  FIFER  and  two  Children, — a  BOY  with  a  drum 
and  a  GIRL  with  a  fiddle.  The  FIFER,  clad  like 
the  Children  in  ragged  regimentals,  glances  from 
under  his  cocked  hat  the  wrinkly  smile  of  QUIL- 
LOQUON. 

Passing  through  the  gathered  groups  of  darkies 
and  citizens  who  cheer  them  in  the  background, 
they  march  drumming  and  fifing — straight  down 
the  centre  of  the  grassy  foreground.  There — 
after  passing  WASHINGTON  and  MARTHA  on  their 
left — the  FIFER  and  Children  are  shut  off  from 
the  scene  by  the  closing  blue  curtains  of  the  thea 
tre,  in  front  of  which  they  continue  for  a  moment, 
standing,  to  fife,  fiddle  and  drum  their  tune.] 


(Sixth  Transition) 

At  the  close  of  the  tune,  QUILLOQUON  stops  fifing; 
takes  off  his  hat;  bows  right  and  left  to  the  Chil 
dren;  takes  from  the  BOY  his  drum,  inverts  it 
and — sitting  on  it — hands  his  hat  to  the  little 
GIRL  to  hold. 

With  the  flute,  he  blows  a  note  to  get  his  pitch,  then 
begins  to  sing.  Squatted  by  his  knees,  on  either 


132  WASHINGTON  [Acr  II 

side  of  him,  the  Children  listen,  clapping  their 
hands  at  the  end. 


QUILLOQUON 

There  were  some  boys  on  Bunker's  hill; 

Dellum-down,  dellum-down! 
There  were  some  boys  on  Bunker's  hill; 
The  King  marched  up,  but  they  stood  still. 

Dellum-down,  dellum-down! 

The  King  marched  up  to  drive  'em  down; 

Dellum-down,  dellum-down! 
The  King  marched  up  to  drive  'em  down; 
He  stubbed  his  toe  and  bumped  his  crown. 

Dellum-down,  dellum-down! 

He  bumped  his  crown  and  made  his  will, 

Dellum-down,  dellum-down! 
He  bumped  his  crown  and  made  his  will — 
And  left  those  boys  old  Bunker's  hill. 

Dellum-down,  dellum-down! 

[Rising  quickly  with  a  chuckle,  QUILLOQUON 
hands  his  flute  to  the  LITTLE  GIRL,  puts  on  his 
hat,  lifts  the  drum,  slips  it  on  the  BOY,  and  takes 
from  the  GIRL  the  fiddle  and  bow. 

Then,  raising  his  bow  for  a  directors  signal, 
he  begins  to  play  Yankee  Doodle,  to  which  he 
marches  as  leader,  off  left,  followed  by  the  GIRL 
and  BOY  fifing  and  drumming  the  tune. 


ACT  II]  WASHINGTON  133 

The  tune  does  not  cease  with  their  exit,  but 
continues  with  a  Chorus  of  Voices  from  behind 
the  curtains.} 


EIGHTH  ACTION 

The  curtains  draw  back,  discovering  an  open  space 
between  two  dull-red  brick  buildings,  with  small- 
paned  windows.  On  the  left — beyond  an  old- 
time  mounted  cannon — is  a  plain,  rustic  table 
with  benches. 

In  the  open  space,  young  Soldier  Fellows  and  Girls 
are  dancing  a  country  round-dance,  cadenced  to 
the  clapping  of  hands  and  singing  of  the  on 
lookers — a  miscellaneous  crowd  of  Soldiers, 
Students  and  Civilians,  some  of  whom  sit  astride 
and  stand  on  the  cannon. 

In  the  background,  a  wide  constructed  arch  of  ever 
green  boughs  gives  vista  of  an  elm-shaded 
churchyard  and  a  square-spired  church  beyond. 

From  the  top  of  the  arch,  draped  at  the  centre  about 
a  crudely  painted  portrait-head  of  WASHINGTON, 
extends  a  weather-stained  streamer  with  the  in 
scription: 
HAIL  TO  OUR  COMMANDER  IN  CHIEF! 

The  Dancers  themselves  join  at  times  in  the  chorus 
and  the  clapping  of  the  on-looking  Singers. 


134  WASHINGTON  [Aer  II 

THE   SINGERS 
'Fath'r  and  I  went  down  to  camp 

Along  with  Captain  Good'in, 
And  there  we  see  the  men  and  boys 

As  thick  as  hasty  puddin'. 

(Chorus) 

6  Yankee  Doodle,  keep  it  up, 

Yankee  Doodle  dandy! 
Mind  the  music  and  the  step 

And  with  the  girls  be  handy. 

'And  there  was  Captain  Washington 

Upon  a  slappin'  stallion, 
Agivin'  orders  to  his  men — 

I  guess  there  was  a  million. 

'And  there  I  see  a  little  keg, 

Its  head  all  made  of  leather; 
They  knocked  upon't  with  little  sticks 

To  call  the  folks  together.' 

[Suddenly  a  hubbub  in  the  background  parts 
the  groups  of  Dancers,  and  under  the  archway, 
down  the  centre — comes  dancing  a  white  Hobby- 
Horse,  capering  upon  the  two  legs  of  QUILLO- 
QUON,  who  is  clad  in  blue  with  a  blue  jockey-cap, 
from  which  flames  a  brilliant  red  feather. 

Behind  him,  on  either  side,  come  galloping  a 
Hobby -Lion  and  a  Hobby -Unicorn,  prancing  re- 


ACT  II]  WASHINGTON  135 

spectively  on  the  legs  of  a  BOY,  who  wears  a  red 
military  jacket  and  gold  crown,  and  of  a  GIRL 
with  a  diadem  circling  her  golden  hair.  The 
BOY  bears  a  shield  and  THE  LITTLE  GIRL  car 
ries  a  sceptre. 

Singing  as  he  comes,  and  dashing  into  the  mid 
dle  of  the  shouting  Dancers — who  draw  back  in  a 
wide  circle — QUILLOQUON  reins  up  his  hobby 
horse,  cracking  loudly  a  riding-whip  in  his 
hand. 

To  the  flickings  of  this,  the  Lion  and  the  Uni 
corn  caper  round  and  round  him — sceptre 
thwacking  shield,  and  roar  answering  whinny 
in  their  dance — while  QUILLOQUON,  dancing 
with  them,  sings  lustily:] 

QUILLOQUON 

'Yankee  Doodle  came  to  town 

Upon  a  spankin'  pony, 
He  stuck  a  feather  in  his  cap 

And  called  it  macaroni. 

6Yankee  Doodle — ha!  ha!  ha! 

Cakes  and  sugar  candy! 
Come  listen  to  my  story  now 

Of  Yankee  Doodle  dandy!9 

He  went  a  huntin'  by  the  bay 

Where  Yankee  he  was  born,  Sir: 


136  WASHINGTON  [Aer  II 

He  trapped  a  roarin'  lion  there 
And  catched  a  unicorn,  Sir. 

(Chorus,  with  the  On-lookers) 

6 Yankee  Doodle — ha!  ha!  ha! 

Cakes  and  sugar  candy! 
Come  listen  to  my  story  now 

Of  Yankee  Doodle  dandy!9 

The  lion  roared  so  pesky  loud 

It  almost  deefened  Doodle, 
Till  he  took  out  his  muzzle-gun 

And  tamed  him  like  a  poodle. 

The  unicorn  she  didn't  care 

To  catch  the  lion's  hidin', 
And  so  they  made  a  dandy  team 

For  Doodle's  hobby-ridin'. 

(Chorus,  of  All) 

'Yankee  Doodle — ha!  ha!  ha! 

Cakes  and  sugar  candy! 
So  here  youve  heard  the  story  now 

Of  Yankee  Doodle  dandy!9 

[Grinning  at  the  On-lookers,  with  a  low  bow 
of  his  pony  head,  which  raises  his  tail  and 
haunches  high  in  the  air,  QUILLOQUON  cracks 
his  whip  again  to  the  Lion  and  Unicorn  and — 
driving  them  before  him — gallops  off  the  scene, 


ACT  II]  WASHINGTON  137 

through  the  archway.     During  this  he  is  greeted 
and  followed  by  shouts  from  the  gathering.} 

SHOUTS 

Heigh,   Doodle,   how   much   for  your   live-stock? 

Auction  'em  over  to  Boston  town  house.  General 
Gage  he'd  bid  guineas  for  'em. 

Yoke  'em  up  for  Israel  Put:  he  left  his  plough-team 
down  to  Greenwich. 

Hush  up,  fellers!     Here  comes  the  army  chaplain. 

[From  the  door  of  the  building  on  the  right 
has  come  a  MAN  of  quiet  presence,  clad  se 
verely  in  black.  He  speaks  with  a  strong,  gentle 
voice  and  friendly  smile.} 

THE   MAN 

Friends,  less  hubbub,  please!  His  Excellency, 
General  Washington,  is  busily  engaged  there  in  Massa 
chusetts  Hall.  He  bids  me  remind  you  it  is  now  some 
weeks  since  he  took  command  of  the  army  by  the 
elm  over  yonder,  so  there  is  no  further  occasion  for 
celebrations  here  in  his  honour.  Work  is  our  present 
duty:  the  siege  of  Boston  and  victory  for  our  cause! 

A  VOICE 

Well  sarmoned,  Minister  Emerson!  We're  all 
with  ye. 


138  WASHINGTON  [Acx  II 

EMERSON 

[Smiling.] 

Thank  you,  friend,  but  you  mustn't  be  with  me. 
You  must  all  go  your  ways.  The  young  gentlemen 
of  Harvard  College  among  you  will  kindly  disperse 
in  good  order. 

VOICES 

[Of  the  Gatherers,  as  they  disperse  and  go 
out.] 

I.  Come  along  to  the  common,  boys! 

II.  Let's  take  a  look  at  the  trenchments. 

III.  Coin'  back  to  camp? 

IV.  No  s'ree!     I'm  dog-tired  o'  this  drillin'.     I'm 
goin'  ter  hook  it  off  home  for  a  rest-up.     I  didn't  vol 
unteer  till  Kingdom-come. 

III.  Me,  nuther!  I  didn't  cal'late  on  this  racket 
lastin'  all  summer.  My  corn  needs  hoein'  to  home. 

EMERSON 

[To  a  young  Man  in  uniform,  who  has  come 
out  of  Massachusetts  Hall.] 

You  hear,  Mr.  Knox? — I  beg  pardon,  Colonel!  I 
still  think  of  you  as  plain  Henry  Knox,  selling  books 
in  Cornhill. 

KNOX 

That's  natural,  Sir;  we  are  all  pretty  new  to  this 
fighting  business — except  General  Washington.  It 
provides  him  harder  tasks  than  Hercules,  to  break  us 
in. 


ACT  II]  WASHINGTON  139 

EMERSON 

Yes,  I'm  afraid  there  be  Augean  stables  to  clean — 
even  in  Cambridge.  But  the  Lord  hath  sent  us  a 
Chrisrian  demi-god  more  resourceful  than  the  pagan. 

KNOX 

A  Conformist  Christian,  Sir:  how  do  our  Yankee 
dissenters  take  to  that? 

EMERSON 

Why,  Colonel,  we  never  think  of  it,  for  his  modesty 
never  obtrudes  his  own  sentiments.  Unity  appears 
his  single  aim — unity  for  America.  'Tis  really  sur 
prising  how  this  Southern  aristocrat  hath  invaded  our 
Puritan  commonwealth  and  captured  all  our  hearts. 

KNOX 

All  our  hearts — I  believe  you:  but  not  all  our  can 
tankerous  egos.  I've  just  left  him  in  there — swarmed 
round  by  our  buzzing  committees.  My  word,  Sir!  I 
could  only  think  on  some  high-mettled  stallion,  teth 
ered  in  a  pound,  infested  with  cattle-flies! 

EMERSON 

[Smiling.  ] 

'And  as  oft  as  the  trumpet  soundeth,  he  saith  Aha!9 
Yet  in  harness  he  keeps  surprisingly  cool.  I  have 
even  heard  him  called  icy  and  aloof. 

KNOX 
His  coolness  is  his  patience,  Sir:  he's  too  masterful 


140  WASHINGTON  [ ACT  II 

to  squirm  at  an  itch.  And  as  for  that  reputed  ice  of 
his,  I  fancy  'tis  like  our  Charles  river  in  April — 
when  it  thaws,  there  may  be  boomings,  and  large 
chunks  heaved  up  on  the  banks! 

[He  laughs  low,  and  they  pass  together  into 
Harvard  Hall  on  the  left. 

Meantime,  a  Group  of  sea-tanned  fellows  in 
fisherman's  garb,  who  have  failed  to  disperse  and 
are  flirting  with  some  girls,  begin  to  point  and 
jeer  at  a  Group  of  raw-boned  men  in  Indian 
leather  shirts,  their  long  hair  untied. 

This  SECOND  GROUP  enter  on  the  march. 
They  carry  a  flag  designed  with  the  emblem  of  a 
snake,  cut  apart  in  several  pieces,  inscribed  be 
neath  with  the  words  "Unite  or  Die."  They  are 
droning  a  song  in  chorus.} 

THE    SECOND    GROUP 

[Singing.] 

Oh,  whar'll  I  lay  my  heart  down? 
Oh,  whar'll  I  lay  my  heart  down? 

Eden  home  is  far  away: 
Oh,  never  mind ! 
I'll  lay  my  heart  down, 

Down  in  the  lap  of  old  Virgin-ee-ay ! 

THE    FIRST    GROUP 

[Speaking,  severally,  while  THE  SECOND 
GROUP  is  still  singing.] 


ACT  II]  WASHINGTON  141 

I.  See,  gals,  here  come  the  Jinnies! 

II.  Jinnies? — where  do  they  hail  from? 

I.  Jest  weaned  from  Virginia's  yams — homesick 
for  their  Mammy. 

III.  They've  come  to  save  their  country — singin' 
lullabies. 

IV.  Heigh,  Injun  Jinny! — Lay  your  heart  down  in 
my  lap,  will  ye? 

[THE  SECOND  GROUP  pause,  glowering — and 
cease  their  song.] 

THE  SECOND  GROUP  LEADER 

Who  do  you-all  'low  you's  addressin'? 

THE    FIRST    GROUP    LEADER 

[Mocking  the  other  s  drawl  and  speech.] 
We-all  'low  we's  addressin'  the  renowned  tribe  o' 
Pocahontas,  known  as  "Jinny"  for  short. 

[THE  FIRST  GROUP  roar  with  laughter,  at 
which  THE  SECOND  GROUP  begin  fiercely  to  un- 
sling  their  guns. 1 

ONE    OF   THE    SECOND   GROUP 

Them  stinkers  is  Johnnies  from  Marblehead.     I 
know  'em. 

ANOTHER 
Baste  'em,  boys! 

[Some  of  the  Girls  scream,  and  draw  back.] 


142  WASHINGTON  [Acx  II 

THE  SECOND  GROUP  LEADER 

Slow,    thar!     No   gunninM     This-yere   ain't   fire 
arms,  it's  forearms! 

[Stepping    into   the    centre   and    rolling   his 
sleeves.] 

Which  one  o'  you  cod-fish  wants  saltin'  down  for 
the  lot? 

THE    FIRST 

[Doing  likewise.] 

Which   one   o'   you   redskins   wants  your   leather 
tanned? 

THE    TWO    GROUPS 

[Surrounding  the  two  and  flinging  taunts  at 
each  other.] 

I.  Jinny!     Jinny!     Jinny,  come  kiss  me! — Kin  I 
pick  ye,  mountain-daisy? 

II.  Cod-livers!      Stink-oils!     Pickle-herrin's! 

THE    SECOND    GROUP   LEADER 
[Squaring  off,  with  bared  arms.] 
You  fer  me,  Jack! 

THE   FIRST 
[Doing  the  same.] 
Me  fer  you,  Jinny! 

[The  two  draw  back,  then  strike  out  fiercely 
at  each  other  in  a  fisting  match,  which  rapidly 


ACT  II]  WASHINGTON  143 

becomes  a  rough-and-tumble  wrestling  fight, 
egged  on  wildly  by  the  jeering  shouts  "Tar  him, 
Johnny!"  "Pickle  him,  Jinny!"  etc.,  yelled  by 
the  Marble-headers  and  Virginians. 

At  the  height  of  this  tumult,  the  towering  fig 
ure  of  WASHINGTON,  in  General's  uniform,  ap 
pears,  bareheaded,  in  the  doorway  of  Massachu 
setts  Hall,  lunges  with  huge  strides  through  the 
group,  flinging  men  headlong  in  his  wake,  seizes 
the  two  Combatants  sprawling  on  the  ground, 
drags  them  to  their  feet  by  their  shirt-napes, 
shakes  them  fiercely,  and  knocks  their  heads  to 
gether. 

So,  holding  the  two  at  arm's  length,  he  stands 
glaring  at  them. 

The  uproar  is  stilled  to  a  scene  of  dumb  stupe 
faction,  through  which  the  low  voice  of  KNOX, 
— who  has  appeared  with  EMERSON  at  the  door 
of  Harvard  Hall — is  heard  speaking  to  the  Min 
ister,  as  he  nudges  his  arm  and  points.] 

KNOX 

The  ice  has  thawed,  Mr.  Emerson. 

WASHINGTON 

[Exploding.] 

By  the  great  horn  spoon  of  Jehosaphat! — What's 
this  mean? 

[The  two  Combatants  gape,  staring.] 


144  WASHINGTON  [  ACT  II 

What's  in  your  tarnal  skulls — ha? — mule-bran,  or 
brains? 

[The  Men  salute  him  dumbly.] 
Are  you  soldiers — or  squabbling  nincumpoops? 

[The   Men    laugh    nervously.     WASHINGTON 
loosens  his  grip,  flinging  them  off.] 
Sniggering? — What's  to  snigger  for?     No  tongues! 
Must  I  slit  'em  for  ye?     Speak  out — Where  are  you 
from? 

THE    FIRST    LEADER 

Marblehead.     I  fish  thar.     I'm  a  Massachusettser. 

WASHINGTON 

[To  the  Other.] 
And  you? 

THE    SECOND 

Me,  General? — Reckon  Fs  Virginian — like  yerself, 
Sir. 

WASHINGTON 

You  reckon  wrong,  then.  In  this  army,  there's  no 
Virginians  nor  Massachusettsers;  there's  only  Ameri- 
icans.  You  understand?  You  and  him  and  me — 
we  are  all  just  Americans:  nothing  else,  my  men,  and 
nothing  better. 

[To  one  of  THE  SECOND  GROUP,  who  holds  the 
flag  with  the  snake  device.] 
Give  me  that  flag! 

[Points  to  the  snake.] 
What's  this? 


ACT  II]  WASHINGTON  145 

THE   SECOND    LEADER 

Tears  like  a  rattler — what  needs  splicin'. 

WASHINGTON 

Just  so :  the  pieces  have  got  to  be  spliced,  or  he's  a 
goner.     Ever  see  a  cut-up  rattler  that  could  fight? 

THE    SECOND 

Not  yit,  sir. 

WASHINGTON 

[To  the  other  Man.] 
You, — can  you  read? 

THE    FIRST    LEADER 

I  kerry  "Poor  Richard's  Almanack"  in  my  kit. 

WASHINGTON 

Read  this,  then :  Poor  Richard  wrote  it. 

THE    FIRST 

[Reading  from  the  flag.] 
"Unite  or  die." 

WASHINGTON 

And  what's  that  mean? 

THE   FIRST 

I  guess  that'll  mean — stick  together,  or  git  stept  on. 

WASHINGTON 

Aye,  my  lads:  stand  up,  together!     That's  what 


146  WASHINGTON  [Acx  II 

we've  all  got  to  do  in  America — from  now  on.  I 
reckon  that's  enough  for  preachment.  Bumped  heads 
are  better  than  book-larnin' — to  start  with;  the  rest 
is  brains  and  gumption.  So  give  me  your  hands, 
here!  Stand  together,  North  and  South,  and  splice 


up! 


[Taking  each  by  the  hand,  he  brings  the  two 
Leaders  together. 

Grinning  sheepishly,  they  extend  their  right 
hands  to  each  other  and  grip. 

As  they  do  so,  WASHINGTON,  relaxing  to  a  faint 
smile,  lays  his  own  hand  on  theirs  conjoined, 
and  says  with  a  grim  solemnity:] 
For  better,  or  for  worse! 

[Approaching  with  KNOX,  EMERSON  adds  im 
mediately — with  a  twinkling  look  and  a  minis 
terial  gesture:] 

EMERSON 

I,  Jonathan,  take  thee,  Virginia! — Amen,  boys? 

THE    LEADERS 

[Together,  with  a  laugh.] 
Amen,  Sir! 

WASHINGTON 

Now  pack  off,  and  keep  camp  orderly! 
THE    LEADERS 

Aye,  General. 


ACT  II]  WASHINGTON  147 

EMERSON 

[Smiling,  calls  after  them.] 

And  remember,  young  folks — for  better  or  for 
worse. 

WASHINGTON 

Especially — worse ! 

[With  shamefaced  grins,  THE  LEADERS  hasten 
off,  surrounded  and  followed  by  THE  Two 
GROUPS,  tittering  and  whispering  together.  The 
murmur  of  their  talk  grows  louder  as  they  pass 
outside.] 

EMERSON 

Pardon  my  interpolation,  your  Excellency,  but  you 
seemed  to  have  need  of  the  chaplain. 

WASHINGTON 

Ah,  Sir,  I  can  deliver  the  trouncin's,  but  I  wish 
you  could  relieve  me  of  the  sarmons.  I'm  a  sorry 
hand  at  'em. 

[Outside,  a  mans  voice  shouts,  loudly,  fol 
lowed  by  a  momentary  hubbub.] 

THE   VOICE 

Hurray  for  George  Washington  of  Virginia! 

WASHINGTON 

Virginia!  Hear  'em?  That's  how  long  they  re 
member  my  preachments! 


148  WASHINGTON  [Acr  II 

KNOX 

Can  we  confer  here  a  moment,  General,  or  have  you 
not  finished  with  the  committees? 

WASHINGTON 
Finished — with  committees? 

[He  makes  a  forlorn  gesture  of  resignation.'} 
Sir,  I  have  lately  composed  my  epitaph: — "Here 
lies  a  commander-in-chief,  called  to  his  account  by 
committees." 

[With  a  sudden  look  at  the  door  of  Massa 
chusetts  Hall,  he  pauses  quickly,  takes  from  his 
pocket  a  little  box,  turns  to  the  Chaplain,  and 
speaks  in  confidential  tone.] 
Mr.  Emerson — would  you  do  me  a  favour? 

EMERSON 

You  would  favour  me  by  asking  it,  Sir. 

WASHINGTON 

Tis  cool  here  in  the  shade;  I  require  some  confer 
ence  with  Colonel  Knox. — My  man  Billy  is  on  duty 
indoors  there,  as  beagle  to  the  committees. 

[Handing  him  the  little  box.] 
Will  you  take  him  this  snuff-box,  and  tell  him  to 
trail  the  pack  to  my  office  in  Wadsworth  house. 

EMERSOfl 

[Mystified.] 
Trail  the  pack,  Sir? 


ACT  II]  WASHINGTON  149 

WASHINGTON 

With  the  fox's  brush.  He's  an  old  huntsman  at 
Mt.  Vernon. 

EMERSON 

[Blankly.] 
But  this  snuff-box? 

WASHINGTON 

Tis  a  signal,  Sir.  Billy  understands  the  code. 
It  means — sidetrack  the  quarry. 

EMERSON 
[More  blankly.] 
Of  course,  your  Excellency. 

[EMERSON  goes  into  the  hall,  right. 
WASHINGTON  turns  toward  the  mounted  cannon 
and  table,  left.] 

WASHINGTON 

Meanwhile,  Colonel,  the  quarry  will  take  lair  be 
hind  this  field-piece. 

[The  smile  passes  from  his  face,  and  he  sits 
on  a  bench,  drawing  a  deep  breath,  wearily.] 

KNOX 

[Sitting  on  another  bench.] 

Well,  Sir,  twelve  thousand  redcoats  in  Boston — 
equipped  and  disciplined:  General  Gage  has  'em 
perfectly  supplied.  Howe's  fleet  commands  the  wat 
ers.  You  have  a  huge  task,  General, 


150  WASHINGTON  [Acx  II 


WASHINGTON 

[Murmurs  low.] 


Ha! 


KNOX 

Our  own  men  of  New  England — 

WASHINGTON 
[Looking  up  quickly.] 
How  many  took  to  the  tall  timber  yesterday? 

KNOX 

I  regret  to  say — more  than  two  hundred.  That 
makes — the  last  fortnight — over  a  thousand,  have  re 
turned  to  their  farms.  If  only  Congress  would  au 
thorize  longer  enlistments — 

WASHINGTON 

Ha! — Congress! 

KNOX 
Or  if  we  had  ships — 

WASHINGTON 

Ships! — Congress,  Sir,  complains  we  haven't  cap 
tured  the  harbour  without  'em. 

KNOX 

Truly!  Well,  at  least,  on  land  we've  shown  some 
of  our  native  mettle  on  Bunker's  hill. 

[WASHINGTON  rises  slowly  and  bows.] 


ACT  II]  WASHINGTON  151 

WASHINGTON 

Colonel  Knox!  to  the  real  patriots  of  Bunker  hill, — 
like  yourself,  Sir, — I  make  my  bow,  from  my  heart. 
But  as  for  the  dirty  rascals  that  keep  trading  their 
Bunker  patriotism  for  their  own  local  profits — well, 
Sir,  I  do  not  make  my  bow  to  'em:  I  take  my  seat— 
and  I  wish  they  occupied  this  bench. 
[He  sits  down  with  vigour.] 

KNOX 

The  present  situation  is  scandalous,  Sir.  I  am 
sorry  the  militia  officers  do  so  little  to  improve  it. 

WASHINGTON 

Naturally:  they  are  too  rotten  with  politics.  Being 
elected  by  their  raw  militia,  they  are  more  attentive 
to  the  smiles  of  their  men  than  the  frowns  of  their 
commander-in-chief.  There's  no  getting  such  officers 
to  execute  orders.  All  the  same,  I  have  made  a  pretty 
good  slam  amongst  'em. 

KNOX 
How's  that,  General? 

WASHINGTON 

Well,  Sir,  since  I  came  into  this  camp,  I  have  broke 
one  colonel  and  two  captains  for  cowardly  behaviour 
in  the  action  on  Bunker  Hill,  two  captains  for  draw 
ing  more  pay  and  provisions  than  they  had  men  in 
their  company,  and  one  for  being  absent  from  his  post 


152  WASHINGTON  [Acx  II 

when  the  enemy  appeared  there.  Besides  these,  I 
have  one  colonel,  one  major,  one  captain  and  two  sub 
alterns  under  arrest  for  trial.  Yet  I  fear  it  will  not 
all  do,  as  these  people  seem  to  be  too  attentive  to 
everything  but  their  own  interests. 

KNOX 

[Gloomily.] 

'Tis  pity  indeed  the  good  name  of  New  England  is 
involved.  'Tis  very  dear  to  many  of  us,  who  would 
gladly  die  for  it.  I  am  very  dejected,  General. 

WASHINGTON 

Nay,  Sir,  don't  be!  The  grain  will  grow,  the  chaff 
blow  away.  If  we  succeed  in  this  business — as  by 
God's  will  we  shall — never  worry:  there'll  be  nothing 
left  but  heroes  for  posterity. 

[From  the  hall,  right,  BILLY  the  Negro  comes 
rushing  toward  them — his  black  face  twitching 
excitedly  above  his  scarlet-and-white  livery.  In 
one  hand  he  waves  WASHINGTON'S  snuff -box.] 

BILLY 
Marse  Ex'lency,  dey's  on  yo'  trail:  watch  out! 

WASHINGTON 

[Rising,  with  KNOX.] 
Who's  on  my  trail,  Billy — posterity? 

BILLY 

Yas'r,  gospel  verity  an'  troof  1     Dey's  too  sharp-in- 


ACT  II]  WASHINGTON  153 

de-nose  fo'  you  ter  'scape  'em,  Fse  awarn  you!  Dey 
is  nebber  gwine  gib  you  no  hole  in  de  groun'9  fo'  ter 
lay  down  an'  stretch  yo'self  cumptible;  no,  s'r. 

WASHINGTON 

[With  a  smiling  glance  at  KNOX.] 
You  see  my  doom,  Colonel! 

BILLY 

No,  s'r:  I  'pol'gizes. 

[Showing  the  snuff -box.] 

I  done  got  yo'  signal,  but  dey's  too  smart  fo'  mah 
'umble  'tainments  in  de  side-trackin'  line.  De  ge'men 
down  home  Virginny  dey's  receib  a  p'lite  fibbin'  like 
ge'men  and  dey's  return  de  compl'ment.  When  I  tells 
'em  you's  in  de  barn,  dey  ain't  gwine  ter  peek  fer  you 
in  de  drawin'-room.  Dey's  'low  dey  got  a  prev'ous 
'gagement  an'  go  'long  home.  But  dese  yere  Cam 
bridge  ge'men — 'clare  ter  hebben,  s'r! — dey  ain't  got 
no  'stinctive  feelin's  fo'  high-bo'n  fibbin',  what  leabs 
out  de  low-down  fax;  no,  s'r! 

WASHINGTON 

Cut  it  short,  Billy:  what  are  the  facts? 

BILLY 

De  low-down  fax  is,  Marse  Ex'lency — 

[As  he  hesitates,  three  Civilians,  clad  in 
grey,  come  out  of  Massachusetts  Hall  and  ap 
proach.  Catching  sight  of  them,  BILLY  draws 


154  WASHINGTON  [Acx  II 

himself  up,  with  official  pomp,  and  speaks  with 
easy  indifference:'] 
Here  dey  comes,  s'r:  dey  speaks  fo'  deirselfs. 

THE    FIRST    CIVILIAN 

[To  the  other  two,  pointing  at  WASHINGTON.] 
There  he  is:  I  told  you  so. 

[Drawing  near.~\ 
We've  been  waitin',  Mr.  Washington — 

WASHINGTON 

[Quickly.} 
Your  pardon,  Sir?     To  whom  are  you  referring? 

THE    CIVILIAN 

Why,  to  you!     Ain't  you  the  General  here? 

WASHINGTON 

Quite  right,  Sir;  I  am  the  General. 

THE    CIVILIAN 

Wall,  General  Washington,  we've  been  waitin'  for 
you  half  an  hour. 

WASHINGTON 

[Bowing  slightly.} 
The  pleasure  is  mutual,  Sir. 

THE    CIVILIAN 

We  have  the  honour  to  be  the  selectmen  of  this 
town. 


ACT  II]  WASHINGTON  155 

WASHINGTON 

The  honour,  Sir,  seems  to  be  appreciated. 

THE   SELECTMAN 

Thought  may  be  you  wasn't  informed — considerin' 
that  half  hour  wait. 

WASHINGTON 

Half  an  hour  can  be  very  informing — or  otherwise. 

THE   SELECTMAN 

[Fastening  his  eyes  on  BILLY.] 
Considerin'  also  we  ain't  accustomed  in  this  local 
ity  to  crossin'  our  crows  with  scarlet  tanagers. 

WASHINGTON 

The  locality  is  a  bit  drab,  Sir. 

THE    SELECTMAN 

[Sitting  on  one  of  the  benches — his  compan 
ions  on  the  other.'] 

But  comin'  straight  to  business,  General  Washing 
ton:  we  as  selectmen  have  received  great  numbers  o' 
complaints  from  our  townfolks  about  your  diggin's 
and  doin's:  your  trenchments  and  your  intrudin'  sol 
dier-camps.  All  o'  which  causes  wrack  and  ruin  to 
private  property.  It  conflicts  with  personal  rights, 
Sir!  When  is  it  goin'  to  end? 

WASHINGTON 

With  the  attainment  of  our  object — liberty. 


156  WASHINGTON  [Acx  II 

THE    SELECTMAN 

Liberty  and  welcome!  But  where  is  it?  This 
here  is  individual  slavery. 

WASHINGTON 

A  great  evil,  Sir,  which  each  of  us  today  must  suf 
fer  in  pait,  for  the  general  good  of  tomorrow. 

THE    SELECTMAN 

Tomorrow! — These  here  testimonies  ain't  dated  to 
morrow,  I'm  tellin'  ye,  hut  now! 

WASHINGTON 

Testimonies? 

THE   SELECTMAN 

[Taking  out  papers.] 

These  documents  set  forth  the  lawful  grievances  of 
the  complainants  in  re  flagrant  offences  committed  un 
der  your  orders,  Sir.  Here's  private  lawns  dug  up 
with  trenchments,  owners'  residences  confiscated  for 
forts,  fields  and  orchards  laid  common,  houses  and 
cattle  turned  in  the  mowin',  corn  crops  eat  to  the 
ground,  and  the  best  citizens'  shade  trees  cut  down 
for  firewood  and  public  buildin's. — What,  I  ask,  Sir, 
what  have  you  to  say  to  these  things? 

WASHINGTON 

A  sad  devastation :     Tis  a  great  pity. 


ACT  II]  WASHINGTON  157 

THE    SELECTMAN 

[With  a  keen  look,  rising.'} 
Wall,  General,  what's  the  price? 

WASHINGTON 

Price,  Sir? 

v  THE    SELECTMAN 

That's  the  question.  I  calc'late  a  great  pity  don't 
call  for  a  small  payment. 

WASHINGTON 

No,  Sir:  a  large  payment. 

THE    SELECTMAN 

Very  good.  In  cases  of  confiscation,  the  law  of 
escheat  provides  for  appropriate  damages.  So  I 
trust,  General,  you've  ben  thinkin'  over  the  proper 
basis  of  valuation  for  all  this  destruction. 

WASHINGTON 

I  have,  Sir;  I  trust  you  have  also. 

THE    SELECTMAN 

Ye-es;  I'm  pretty  well  primed  on  real  estate.  But 
siipposin'  you  speak  first.  What's  your  rate  of  esti 
mate — rock-bottom  ? 

WASHINGTON 

My  estimate  is  an  alternative. 


158  WASHINGTON  [Acx  II 

THE    SELECTMAN 

Alternative? — between  which? 

WASHINGTON 

Licking  or  Liberty:  there's  no  other  rock-bottom 
for  American  real  estate. 

[THE  SELECTMAN  stares. 
KNOX,  who  has  received  and  read  a  document, 
delivered  by  an  Orderly,  hands  it  gravely  to 
WASHINGTON.] 

KNOX 

Report,  your  Excellency,  on  our  present  supply  of 
powder. 

WASHINGTON 

What  is  our  supply? 

KNOX 

[Lowering  his  voice.] 
None,  Sir. 

[Under  the  archway,  a  GRINDSTONE  MAN, 
pushing  his  wheel,  has  entered,  attended  by  two 
Children,  carrying  in  their  arms  enormous  axes. 

THE  SELECTMAN,  who  has  muttered  some 
hasty  words  to  his  two  companions,  now  turns 
again  to  WASHINGTON  and  speaks  in  a  tone  of 
defiant  sarcasm."] 

THE    SELECTMAN 

General  Washington!     If  you  think,  Sir,  that  men 
of  real  business  in  this  section — 


ACT  II]  WASHINGTON  159 

THE    GRINDSTONE   MAN 

[Ringing  his  hand-bell.} 
Axes  to  grind!     Axes  to  grind! 

THE   SELECTMAN 

[Raising  his  voice.] 

If  you  think  that  the  lawful  owners  of  private  prop 
erty  are  going  to  stand  for  such  public  confiscation, 
without  equivalent  in  cash  or  bonds — 

THE    GRINDSTONE   MAN 

[Trundling  his  wheel  between  THE  SELECT 
MAN  and  WASHINGTON,  and  dangerously  ring- 
ing  his  bell,  bawls  louder:] 
Axes  to  grind!     Axes  to  grind! 


(Seventh  Transition) 
(Part  1) 

So,  escorted  by  the  Children  as  ax-bearers,  THE 
GRINDSTONE  MAN  crosses  diagonally  down  cen 
tre,  and  begins  singing — to  an  old  ballad  tune — 
in  the  voice  of  QUILLOQUON: 

QUILLOQUON 

Jack  went  amarching 

With  trouble  on  his  mind, 


160  WASHINGTON  [Acr  II 

To  serve  his  native  country 
When  axes  were  to  grind. 
Sing  ree  and  sing  low, 
So  fare  you  well,  my  dear! 

[Through  the  closing  blue  curtains  at  the  cen 
tre,  QUILLOQUON  slips  out  in  front  of  them  with 
the  Children.  There — stopping  his  trundle — 
he  begins  to  push  the  wheel-treadle  with  his  foot, 
taking,  examining  and  rejecting  various  axes 
handed  to  him  by  the  Children,  while  he  con 
tinues  to  sing  to  the  revolving  motion  of  the 
grindstone  wheels:'] 

Night-time  and  noon-time 
With  trouble  on  your  mind, 

'Tis  how  to  serve  your  country 
With  axes  for  to  grind. 
Sing  ree  and  sing  low,  etc. 

Great  folks  and  small  folks 
With  nothing  on  their  mind 

But  how  to  make  the  wheels  turn 
Their  axes  for  to  grind. 
Sing  ree  and  sing  low,  etc. 

Dull  blades  and  broke  blades 

And  any  other  kind, 
'Tis  all  to  get  poor  Work-Jack 

Their  axes  for  to  grind. 
Sing  ree  and  sing  low,  etc. 


ACT  II]  WASHINGTON  l6l 

[Waving  off  the  Children  with  their  axes,  he 
takes — from  within  his  trundle — a  small  hatchet, 
and  begins  to  sharpen  it,  with  a  laugh.] 

Nay,  leave  Jack  his  hatchet: 
'Tis  that  alone  he'll  grind — 

And  leave  to  them  their  axes 
And  the  trouble  on  his  mind! 

[Pausing,  he  rings  his  bell  and — dismissing 
the  Children  right  and  left  along  the  front  of 
the  curtains — he  backs  his  trundle  through  the 
centre  folds,  and  blowing  a  kiss,  sings  there  the 
parting  refrain: 

Sing  ree  and  sing  low, 

So  fare  you  well,  my  dear! 

With  a  final  shake  of  his  bell,  he  disappears. 


(Part  2) 

The  bell  continues  to  ring  behind  the  curtains,  but 
grows  more  faint;  till  now  its  tone  changes  to  a 
deep,  mellow  pealing;  and  now  its  rhythmic 
cadence  is  mingled  with  far-sounding  chimes, 
through  which  low  murmurous  VOICES  of  many 
people  rise,  fall  and  rise  again  more  loud — like 
a  great  wind,  heard  distantly,  over  forest  trees. 

At  first  hardly  audible,  the  deep  Murmur  grows  grad 
ually  more  articulate,  till — between  the  pulsing 


162  WASHINGTON  [Acx  II 

chimes — occasional  words  and  phrases  emerge 
distinguishable,  above  this  flowing  utterance  of 
the  chanting  VOICES  : 

THE  VOICES 

'When,  in  the  course  of  human  events,  it  becomes 
necessary  for  one  people  to  dissolve  the  political 
bands  which  have  connected  them  with  another, — 

'And  to  assume  among  the  powers  of  the  earth  the 
separate  and  equal  station  to  which  the  Laws  of  Na 
ture  and  of  Nature's  God  entitle  them, — 

'A  decent  respect  for  the  opinions  of  mankind  re 
quires  that  they  should  declare  the  causes  which  impel 
them  to  the  separation.' 

[As  the  murmurous  Chant  lessens  to  a  lull, 
there  is  heard  a  single  Voice  intoning  "Oyez!" 
and  the  blue  curtains  are  seen  to  have  parted 
slightly  at  the  centre,  discovering — against  a 
background  of  dark — the  Figure  of  a  Town 
Crier,  holding  in  his  left  hand  a  staff  to  which  is 
attached  a  lantern,  and  of  which  the  heraldic  top 
is  a  hatchet-blade. 

THE  CRIER  holds  near  the  lantern  in  his  right 
hand  a  paper  broadside,  from  which — after  call 
ing  his  Preamble — he  reads  aloud,  intoning  with 
the  voice  of  QUILLOQUON:] 

THE  CRIER 
[QUILLOQUON] 
Oyez!     Oyez!     People  of  America,  hear  ye! 


ACT  II]  WASHINGTON  163 

This  day,  in  the  town  hall  of  Philadelphia,  duly 
convened, — this  day  in  the  year  of  our  Lord,  One 
Thousand,  Seven  Hundred  and  Seventy-Six, — being 
the  Fourth  day  of  July — forevermore,  unto  all  peo 
ples,  declareth  the  Assembly  of  our  people: 

'We  hold  these  truths  to  be  self-evident: — that  all 
men  are  created  equal, — that  they  are  endowed  by 
their  Creator  with  certain  unalienable  Rights, — that 
among  these  are  Life,  Liberty  and  the  pursuit  of  Hap 
piness, — that  to  secure  these  rights,  Governments  are 
instituted  among  men,  deriving  their  just  powers  from 
the  consent  of  the  .governed. 

'That  whenever  any  form  of  Government  becomes 
destructive  of  these  ends,  it  is  the  Right  of  the  People 
to  alter  or  to  abolish  it. 

'And  when  a  long  train  of  abuses  evinces  a  design 
to  reduce  them  under  absolute  Despotism, — it  is  their 
right,  it  is  their  duty  to  throw  off  such  Government, — 
and  to  provide  new  Guards  for  their  future  security. 

'Such  has  been  the  patient  suffrance  of  these  Col 
onies. 

'Our  repeated  petitions  have  been  answered  only 
by  repeated  injury. — A  Prince,  whose  character  is 
thus  marked  by  every  act  which  may  define  a  Tyrant, 
is  unfit  to  be  the  ruler  of  a  free  people. — 

(We,  therefore,  The  Representatives  of  the  United 
States  of  America,  in  General  Congress,  Assembled, 


164  WASHINGTON  [Acx  II 

— appealing  to  the  Supreme  Judge  of  the  world  for  the 
rectitude  of  our  intentions, — do,  in  the  Name,  and  by 
the  authority  of  the  good  People  of  these  Colonies, — 
solemnly  Publish  and  Declare, 

'That  these  United  Colonies  are,  and  of  Right  ought 
to  be, — Free  and  Independent  States! 

'And  for  the  support  of  this  Declaration,  we  mu 
tually  pledge  to  each  other — our  Lives,  our  Fortunes 
and  our  sacred  Honour.' 

[As  the  TOWN  CRIER  concludes,  a  BOY  and  a 
GIRL  run  in  from  either  side,  raising  their  hands 
toward  the  paper  broadsides,  from  one  of  several 
copies  of  which  he  has  been  reading. 

Handing  to  each  a  copy,  he  raises  his  lantern- 
staff,  and  as  they  run  off,  right,  he  follows,  call 
ing  aloud:} 
Oyez!     Oyez!     People  of  the  Ages, — hear  ye! 


(Part  3) 

In  the  distance,  THE  CRIER'S  repeated  call  of  "Oyez!" 
is  dying  away  on  the  right,  when  on  the  left  a 
fiddle  begins  to  play  the  melody  of  a  ballad- 
tune,1  during  which  the  visible  dim  space  be 
comes  palely  luminous  with  a  swirling  greyness, 
as  of  snowflakes  beginning  to  fall. 

lfThe  melody  of  'Raggle-Taggle  Gypsies.' 


ACT  II]  WASHINGTON  165 

And  now — the  fiddle  having  ceased — to  a  thrumming 
of  the  same  tune  upon  strings,  three  tattered 
greyish  forms  enter  from  the  left:  the  two  Chil 
dren  and  a  Man,  who  is  playing  a  dulcimer. 

All  three — recognizable  once  more  as  THE  BOY, 
THE  GIRL  and  QUILLOQUON — come  singing  the 
ballad-tune  words,  which  they  act  out  in  their 
pantomime,  severally  assuming  the  parts,  in  sim 
ple  ballad  fashion,  of  the  characters  their  song 
refers  to — Lord,  Lady,  Servants  and  Gypsies. 

THE  THREE  FIGURES 
[QUILLOQUON  AND  THE  CHILDREN] 
'There  were  three  gypsies  a-come  to  my  door, 

And  down-stairs  ran  this  a-lady,  0! 
One  sang  high  and  the  other  sang  low, 

And  the  other  sang  Bonny,  bonny  Biscay9  01 

[THE  GIRL] 

'Then  she  pulled  off  her  silk-finished  gown 
And  put  on  hose  of  leather,  0 ! 

[THE  BOY  AND  QUILLOQUON] 
'The  ragged,  ragged  rags  about  our  door — 
She's  gone  with  the  raggle-taggle  gypsies,  0! 
[THE  LITTLE  GIRL  runs  off  right.] 

[THE  BOY] 

;  'Twas  late  last  night  when  my  lord  came  home, 
Inquiring  for  his  a-lady,  0. 


166  WASHINGTON  [Acr  II 

The  servants  said  on  every  hand: 

She's  gone  with  the  raggle-taggle  gypsies,  0! 

[QuiLLOQUON  turns  and  addresses  THE  BOY.] 

[QUILLOQUON] 

'Come,  saddle  to  me  my  milk-white  steed, 

And  go  and  fetch  my  pony,  0! 
That  I  may  ride  and  seek  my  bride, 

Who  is  gone  with  the  raggle-taggle  gypsies,  0! 

[The  two  run  off,  right. 

THE  LITTLE  GIRL  alone  enters  immediately, 
Ieft9  followed — to  the  thrumming  of  the  dul 
cimer — by  THE  BOY,  who  remains  near  his  place 
of  entrance  and  sings. 

While  he  does  so,  QUILLOQUON  enters,  passes 
him,  and  advances  toward  THE  GIRL,  looking 
about,  seeming  at  first  not  to  see  her.] 

[THE  BOY] 
'Then  he  rode  high,  and  he  rode  low, 

He  rode  through  wood  and  copses,  too, 
Until  he  came  to  an  open  field, 

And  there  he  espied  his  a-lady,  0! 

[QUILLOQUON,  approaching  the  GIRL,  with  as 
pect  of  lordly  severity.] 
'What  makes  you  leave  your  house  and  land? 
What  makes  you  leave  your  money,  0! 


ACT  II]  WASHINGTON  167 

What  makes  you  leave  your  new-wedded  lord, 
To  go  with  the  raggle-taggle  gypsies,  0! 

[THE  GIRL] 
'O,  what  care  I  for  my  house  and  land? 

What  care  I  for  my  money,  0? 
What  care  I  for  my  new-wedded  lord? 
I'm  off  with  the  raggle-taggle  gypsies,  0 ! 

[The  falling  snow  flakes  grow  thicker  and  the 
scene  more  dim.] 

[QUILLOQUON] 
'Last  night  you  slept  on  a  goose-feather  bed, 

With  the  sheet  turned  down  so  bravely,  0! 
But  to-night  you'll  sleep  in  a  cold  open  field, 

Along  with  the  raggle-taggle  gypsies,  0 ! 

[THE  GIRL] 
'0,  what  care  I  for  a  goose-feather  bed, 

With  the  sheet  turned  down  so  bravely,  0 ! 
For  tonight  I  shall  sleep  in  a  cold  open  field- 
Along  with  the  raggle-taggle  gypsies,  0!' 

[With  a  swift,  proud  gesture  of  departure,  lift 
ing  her  last  song-note  to  its  octave  higher,  the 
little  GIRL  goes  off,  right,  with  steps  of  gladness, 
while  QUILLOQUON — in  crestfallen  grandeur — 
strides  off  with  the  BOY,  left. 

The  GIRL'S  voice,  however,  has  hardly 
ceased,  and  QUILLOQUON  has  not  yet  disap* 


168  WASHINGTON  [ACT  II 

peared,  when  a  Mans  Voice  is  heard  singing 
through  the  dim  whirling  snowfall:] 

THE  MAN'S  VOICE 
[Sings  huskily.] 
'0,  what  care  I  for  a  goose-feather  bed, 

With  the  sheet  turned  down  so  bravely,  0 ! 

For  tonight — I  shall  sleep  in  a  cold  open  field 

Along  with  the  raggle-taggle  gypsies,  0!' 

[Then  suddenly  the  VOICE  speaks,  with  sharp 
staccato.] 
Who  goes  there? 


NINTH  ACTION 

The  Man's  Voice  breaks  in  a  raspy  fit  of  coughing. 

While  he  has  sung,  the  blue  curtains  have  drawn  back 
to  the  width  of  the  full  stage-aperture,  revealing 
the  Singer  himself — a  Sentinel,  in  ragged  Ameri 
can  uniform,  standing  in  the  night  near  a  low- 
burning  camp-fire  (left). 

The  snow  has  ceased  falling.  The  fire  dimly  lights  by 
its  gleam  a  space  surrounded  by  vaguely  dis 
cerned  walls  of  snow-laden  woods,  except  in  the 
background.  There — between  boles  of  trees, 
rising  like  columns  of  grey  ice — an  arch-like 


ACT  II]  WASHINGTON  169 

opening  gives  glimpses  of  struggling  moonlight 
and  gusty,  grey-black  darkness,  through  which  a 
low,  muffled  thudding  and  crackling  murmur 
rise  occasionally  to  the  ear. 

Holding  for  a  moment  his  musket  poised,  the  Sentinel 
looks  off  (left),  listening.  Then,  lowering  his 
gun  and  turning  to  the  fire,  he  crouches  by  it, 
blows  his  fingers,  takes  from  within  his  tattered 
coat  a  little  book,  holds  it  open  near  the  firelight 
and  begins  writing  in  it. 

While  he  does  so,  through  the  glooming  aperture  in 
the  background,  the  tall,  silhouetted  form  of 
WASHINGTON,  in  long  military  cloak,  his  hands 
gripped  behind  him,  is  seen  to  pace  slowly  past 
and  disappear  (right). 

The  SENTINEL  stops  writing,  gesticulates  to  himself, 
muttering;  then  reads  aloud  from  his  book. 

THE    SENTINEL 

'0  ye,  that  love  mankind!  Ye  that  dare  oppose 
not  only  tyranny  but  the  tyrant,  stand  forth!  Every 
spot  of  the  Old  World  is  overrun  with  oppression. 
Freedom  hath  been  hunted  round  the  globe.  0,  re 
ceive  the  fugitive,  and  prepare  in  time  an  asylum  for 
mankind!' 

[Coughing  slightly,  he  stares  a  moment  in  the 
fire:  then  writes  again. 

In  the  background,  the  dim  form  of  WASH- 


170  WASHINGTON  [ ACT  II 

INGTON,  returning,  paces  past  and  disappears, 
left. 

Half  rising  now  from  his  crouched  posture, 
the  SENTINEL  reads  again  from  his  book  in  the 
firelight,  with  gesture  as  of  ardent  conversation 
with  another.} 

'To  see  it  in  our  power  to  make  a  world  happy,  to 
teach  mankind  the  art  of  being  so,  to  exhibit  on  the 
theatre  of  the  universe  a  character  hitherto  unknown, 
and  to  have,  as  it  were,  a  new  creation  entrusted  to 
our  hands, — are  honours  that  command  reflection.' 

[Closing  his  book,  he  looks  intently  in  the 
night.  Then  suddenly,  dropping  the  book,  he 
seizes  up  his  gun,  leaps  to  his  feet  and  calls  out:] 

Who  goes  there? 

THE  MAN'S  VOICE 
[Answers  from  outside,  left.] 
Merry  Christmas! 

THE    SENTINEL 

Merry  Christmas,  yourself! 

[A  MAN  limps  wearily  in,  through  a  gap  in 
the  snow-covered  evergreens.  The  firelight  re 
veals  him  also  forlornly  clad  in  ragged  regi 
mentals.  The  SENTINEL  half  lowers  his  gun.] 

What's  your  name,  and  allegiance? 


ACT  II]  WASHINGTON  171 

THE   MAN 

Lieutenant  James  Monroe,  of  the  United  States. 

THE    SENTINEL 

[Saluting — a  bit  slouchily,  like  a  civilian.] 
'Which  are,  and  of  right  ought  to  be,  free  and  inde 
pendent!'     Pass,  Lieutenant  Monroe,  in  the  name  of 
our  immortal  Declaration. 

MONROE 

Immortal,  Sir,  let  us  hope,  but  ought  to  be  isn't  are 
by  a  long  shot — whatever  Mr.  Jefferson  hath  immor 
tally  declared  for  us. 

[Sitting  on  a  rock  by  the  fire,  he  examines  his 
foot.} 

THE    SENTINEL 

[Bending  over  him.} 

Lord,  lieutenant,  your  foot's  bloody — bleeding  bad ! 
Here,  wait  a  minute. 

[Tearing  a  strip  from  his  own  regimentals9  he 
kneels  down  beside  MONROE.] 
You  need  bandaging. 

MONROE 
Thanks,  friend.     We  all  do — in  this  uniform. 

[Behind  them  the  shadowy  form  of  WASHING 
TON  paces  past  again,  and  noiselessly  disappears. 

While  the  SENTINEL  is  stooping  over,  wrap 
ping  his  companion's  foot  in  bandages,  MON- 


172  WASHINGTON  [Acr  II 

ROE'S   hand — resting    on   the    book — raises    it. 
Glancing  curiously  at  the  open  page,  he  mut 
ters:] 
Hello,  what's  here? 

[The  SENTINEL  looks  up  an  instant,  but  goes 
on  immediately  with  his  occupation.  MONROE 
reads  aloud:] 

"These  are  the  times  that  try  men's  souls.  The 
summer  soldier  and  the  sunshine  patriot  will,  in  this 
crisis,  shrink  from  the  service  of  his  country;  but  he 
that  stands  it  now  deserves  the  love  and  thanks  of 
man  and  woman.  Tyranny,  like  hell,  is  not  easily 
conquered.' 

[Turning  to  the  front  of  the  book,  he  looks 
closely  and  reads:] 

"Tom  Paine:  His  Note  Book."— Great  Caesar! 
Where  did  this  come  from? 

THE    SENTINEL 

From  a  hater  of  Caesar — out  of  my  breast  pocket, 
Sir. 

MONROE 

Yours!  You — Thomas  Paine,  the  author  of  "Com- 
monsense"? 

PAINE 
Unauthorized  by  His  Majesty:  that's  me. 


ACT  II]  WASHINGTON  173 

MONROE 

[Rising  and  saluting.] 

Why,  Sir,  permit  me  to  salute — the  Revolution! 
'Tis  a  privilege  to  meet  Public  Opinion  face  to  face. 

PAINE 

You  meet  just  a  sentinel  at  his  post,  Sir.  'Tis  a 
privilege  of  serving  Liberty,  to  inquire:  "Who  goes 
there?" 

MONROE 

Your  inquiry  will  bum  the  ears  of  kings  till  their 
doomsday,  Mr.  Paine.  Your  challenge  rings  over  the 
Atlantic.  For  my  part,  I  should  like  to  see  it  made 
the  Atlantic  doctrine — No  passing  for  Old  World 
tyrants  this  side  of  the  world! 

PAINE 

And  why  not  doctrine  for  t'other  side,  too,  Mr. 
Monroe? 

MONROE 

[Sitting  again.] 

Well,  Sir, — a  touch  of  modesty.  I  administer  my 
doctrine  by  the  dose — half  a  world  at  a  time. 

PAINE 

Not  me,  lieutenant.  My  mother  didn't  bear  me 
modest,  nor  twins;  so,  following  her  maternal  exam 
ple,  I  never  give  birth  to  a  principle  by  hemispheres. 


174  WASHINGTON  [Acx  II 

MONROE 

[Holding  one  foot  and  twinging.] 
Well  and  good,  Mr.  Paine,  but  hadn't  we  better 
confine  our  universal  dreams  to  gypsy  camps — con 
sidering  our  style  of  bed  tonight? 

PAINE 

[Humming  the  words. ] 

'0,  what  care  I  for  a  goose-feather  bed 

With  the  sheet  turned  down — ' 
[Breaking  off  with  a  short  laugh.] 
Ha!     "Raggle-taggle":  that's  the  tune  of  Revolu 
tion,  Sir. 

MONROE 
[Wearily.] 

Oh,  I  don't  know!  There's  times  I  almost  think  we 
deserve  goose-feathers — and  tar,  too — for  such  loy 
alty  as  ours. 

PAINE 
[Sharply.] 

What's  that!  Is  that  your  ripe  judgment  of  our 
cause? 

MONROE 

No,  Sir,  not  ripe — just  rotten.  I'm  dog-tired — 
tired  of  failure.  The  game's  up!  We  know  our 
dreams — but  look  at  the  facts. 

PAINE 

Well— what  facts? 


ACT  II]  WASHINGTON  175 

MONROE 

Listen ! 

[He  pauses  a  moment.] 
You  hear  that  sound? 

[They  both  listen  in  silence. 
Shadowy   in   the   background,   the   form   of 
WASHINGTON  re-passes  and  disappears.] 

PAINE 

You  mean  the  river  there — the  ice  rattling? 

MONROE 

Yes :  the  death-rattle  of  our  rebellion.  I  mean,  that 
Delaware  river  can  tell  our  story.  That's  us — the 
American  army.  Last  summer,  what  were  we?  The 
warm,  quick  stream  of  our  country's  passion,  welling 
like  hot  blood,  pouring  out  of  the  hills — the  turbulent 
current  of  a  continent.  And  now,  in  December, — 
what  now,  ha?  That's  us — out  there:  a  death-cold 
stream,  congealing  while  we  move:  a  current  choked 
up  with  the  ice  of  its  own  broken  heart — any  hour  to 
be  buried  under,  gone,  stone-cold  as  this  river  bank 
tonight. 

PAINE 

[Humming,  as  he  fondles  his  musket.] 
'For  tonight  I  shall  sleep  in  a  cold  open  field' — 

[Speaking.] 
And  those  facts,  Lieutenant?     Skip  the  metaphors. 


176  WASHINGTON  [Acx  II 

MONROE 

Facts,  Sir?  The  facts  are  disaster  and  retreat.  At 
Brooklyn  Heights — failure,  retreat;  New  York — the 
same;  Fort  Washington,  Fort  Lee — lost,  both;  the 
Hudson — lost;  and  here  now  for  months  in  Jersey — 
ignominious  retreat:  deserters,  dropping  off  like  rats 
from  a  wreck:  militia  without  honour;  officers  without 
obedience;  a  Congress  that  votes  battalions,  but  no 
money — and  this  nearly  two  years  since  Bunker  Hill! 
So  here,  Mr.  Paine,  this  Christmas  night,  while  the 
German  hirelings  are  rum-drinking  over  the  river 
there  in  Trenton — these  are  the  facts:  To  expel  from 
America  His  Majesty's  twenty-five  thousand  regulars, 
stuffed  with  plum  pudding — here  we  are:  twenty-four 
hundred  retreating  frozen-bellied  gypsies! 

PAINE 

[Quickly.] 
And  one  general. 

MONROE 

[Rising  slowly,  speaks  with  quiet  emotion.'] 
Aye,  Sir — one  general.     After  all,  for  us,  I  guess 
that's  the  only  fact.     For,  if  needs  be,  we'll  follow 
that  one  the  gypsy  path  to  hell. 

PAINE 

[With  a  gesture  of  silence,  points  to  the  back 
ground.] 
Shh! 


ACT  II]  WA  S  H I  /V  G  T  0  N  111 

[Silently,  once  more,  in  dim  silhouette,  the 
form  of  WASHINGTON  paces  past  and  is  gone. 
For  a  moment,  they  stand  watching,  motionless. 
Then  MONROE  speaks9  under  his  breath.] 

MONROE 

Him? — Is  this  camp-fire  his? 

PAINE 

[Nodding.] 
I'm  his  sentinel  here. 

MONROE 

1  bear  a  dispatch  to  him. 

PAINE 

Not  now:  not  for  half  an  hour.     That's  my  orders. 
He's  thinking.     He  thinks — alone. 

MONROE 

And  walks  like  that? 

PAINE 

Sometimes.     Sometimes  he  just  stands — like  a  tree 
— all  night. 

MONROE 

What,  and  sleeps — standing? 
PAINE 

Not  sleeps,   I  guess;  though  often  his  eyes  are 


178  WASHINGTON  [Aer  II 

closed.     He    calls    it, — taking    his    cat-naps.     And 
sometimes  he  takes  'em  walking. 

MONROE 
Walking! 

PAINE 

Like  we  saw — there. 

MONROE 

[Taking  out  a  folded  paper.] 
But  this  dispatch,  Mr.  Paine? 

PAINE 

Follow  me,  Sir:  I'll  take  you  to  Colonel  Hamilton. 
Since  the  General  met  him  in  New  York,  he's  made  a 
son  of  him. — He's  over  yonder,  with  General  Knox. 

MONROE 

[Taking  Paine 's  hand  in  the  dim  light,  follows 
him,  limping.} 

Some  future  Christmas,  Mr.  Paine,  we  must  resume 
our  fireside  conversation  on  the  doctrine  of  hemi 
spheres. 

PAINE 

Hemispheres? — No,  Sir:  give  me  globes! 

[[hey  disappear  in  the  darkness. 
After  a  moment — pacing  past  again  in  the 
background — the   huge  form   of  WASHINGTON 


ACT  II]  WASHINGTON  179 

pauses,  comes  slowly  down  half  way  to  the  fire 
and  stands  there. 

In  long  military  cloak,  three-cornered  hat,  and 
great  boots,  his  hands  still  clutched  behind  him — 
his  posture  is  erect  as  an  Indian. 

Around  his  throat  is  a  piece  of  woollen  cloth. 

His  eyes  are  intently  fixed,  his  lips  compressed 
with  painful  tightness. 

He  remains  perfectly  motionless. 

Vaguely  the  sounds  of  wind  and  river-ice 
deepen  the  silence  of  their  pausings. 

Soon,  from  the  right,  very  quietly,  the  slight 
small  form  of  a  young  Man  comes  into  the  gleam 
of  the  fire.  He  is  in  uniform,  shabby  but  borne 
with  alert  distinction.  He  passes  over  to  the  fire 
and  waits  there. 

As  he  crosses  the  gaze  of  WASHINGTON,  the 
eyes  of  the  latter  follow  him  and  continue  to  look 
at  him  for  a  moment,  before  he  speaks  in  a  tone 
hoarse  with  cold.] 

WASHINGTON 

Ah !     Hamilton — you  ? 

HAMILTON 

Yes,  your  Excellency. 

WASHINGTON 

Are  the  boats  secured? 


180  WASHINGTON  [Acx  II 

HAMILTON 

Yes,  your  Excellency. 

WASHINGTON 
All? 

HAMILTON 

Yes,  Sir. 

WASHINGTON 

[Murmurs.] 
Ah! 

[Slowly,  he  begins  to  pace  again. 

HAMILTON  waits,  near  the  fire. 

Soon  WASHINGTON  speaks  again,  abrupt.] 
Oh!     Alexander! 

HAMILTON 

What,  Sir? 

WASHINGTON 

You  dispatched  my  letter  to  Mt.  Vernon? 

HAMILTON 

To  Lady  Washington:     Yes,  Sir. 

WASHINGTON 

[Murmuring  low,  as  he  paces.] 
You're  a  good  boy — you're  a  good  boy — 

[After  a  moment,  pausing  again,  he  speaks 
with  staccato  sharpness.] 
Well?— Well?     Your  report! 


ACT  II]  WASHINGTON  181 

HAMILTON 

This  message,  by  Lieutenant  Monroe,  from  General 
Gates  at  Bristol.  Shall  I  read  it,  Sir? 

WASHINGTON 

No:  give  me  the  gist. 

HAMILTON 

General  Gates  has  received  your  orders.  He  un 
derstands  it  is  your  plan  to  strike  the  Hessians  tonight 
at  Trenton,  with  five  co-operating  divisions,  com 
manded  severally  by  yourself,  himself,  Generals 
Ewing,  Putnam  and  Griffin.  Accordingly,  he  has  dis 
patched  General  Cadwalader  to  the  river. 

WASHINGTON 

Well? 

HAMILTON 

General  Cadwalader  has  looked  at  the  river. 

WASHINGTON 

Has  he!— Well? 

HAMILTON 

He  considers  the  floating  ice  impassable — 

WASHINGTON 

Considers! — 

HAMILTON 

The  chances  desperate,  and  he  is  gone  back  to 
Bristol. 


182  WASHINGTON  [ACT  II 

WASHINGTON 

Gone  back  to  Brimstonel     Let  him  sit  there  and 
broil  his  rump! — What  else? 

HAMILTON 

Another  message  from  General  Gates,  by  Captain 
Wilkinson. 

WASHINGTON 

We  are  twice  favoured. — Well? 

HAMILTON 

General  Gates  himself  has  set  out  for  Philadelphia, 
to  inform  Congress — 

WASHINGTON 
Inform  Congress — what  of? 

HAMILTON 

That  he  disapproves  your  plan,  and  cannot  co 
operate. 

WASHINGTQN 

Ah! 

[After  a  pause.'] 
What  further  messages? 

HAMILTON 

From  General  Putnam,  at  Philadelphia. 

WASHINGTON 

[Quickly.} 
What's  Put  say? 


ACT  II]  WASHINGTON  183 

HAMILTON 

He  regrets  his  division  cannot  march  tonight. 

WASHINGTON 

[Slowly. ] 
Old  Put  says  that.— Well!     —Next? 

HAMILTON 

General  Ewing  regrets  the  ice,  but  will  try  whatever 
seems  most  practical — in  the  morning. 

WASHINGTON 

Try!     He'd  better  try  lard,,  and  fry  in  his  own  fat! 
That's  practical  for  corn  pone — ha! — in  the  morning! 
[WASHINGTON'S    features    contract,    and    he 
gnaws  fiercely  the  edge  of  his  hand,  before  speak 
ing  again.] 

So:  that  makes  three  divisions  time-stalled — use 
less. 

[He  glances  slowly  at  HAMILTON.] 
And  the  fourth — ? 

HAMILTON 

General  Griffin  sends  word — 
[He  pauses.] 

WASHINGTON 

What  are  his  regrets? 


184  WASHINGTON  [Acx  II 

HAMILTON 

He  regrets  his  necessity  to  abandon  New  Jersey 
altogether. 

WASHINGTON 

[Lifting  off  his  hat,  raises  it  high  aloft.] 
Jehovah,  God  of  chariots!     And  this  is  the  thunder 
of  Thy  captains! 

[Dashing  his  hat  to  the  ground,  he  grinds  his 
boot  upon  it.~\ 

Blithering  skulkgudgeons!     These  are  my  fighting 
generals! 

[An  immense  shudder  wrenches  his  body. 
Controlling  a  sharp  spasm,  his  face  grows 
marble.     Stooping,  he  takes  up  the  crumpled  hat 
and  holds  it  in  silence;  then,  slowly  turning  his 
look  from  the  hat  to  HAMILTON'S  face,  he  speaks 
with  tense  quiet.] 
Alexander:  not  a  word  of  this!     You  understand? 

HAMILTON 

Not  a  word,  your  Excellency. 

WASHINGTON 

Your  report,  Sir,  is  satisfactory.     At  midnight,  our 
division  will  cross  the  Delaware — alone. 

HAMILTON 

[With  quiet  emotion.] 
Nay,  Sir:  not  alone. 


ACT  II]  WASHINGTON  185 

WASHINGTON 

I  said — ours  alone.  What  other  forces  are  left  to 
attend  us? 

HAMILTON 

The  Ages,  your  Excellency:  the  forces  that  prevail 
over  river  barriers:  there,  Sir,  still  flows — the  Rubi 
con. 

WASHINGTON 

[Hoarsely.] 

Nay,  my  boy — not  so  classic.  The  Delaware  will 
do,  for  tonight.  'Tis  no  Caesar  stands  in  my  boots. 

{With  smouldering  fire,  that  dartles,  flames 
and  then  bursts.] 

But  'tis  Caesar,  I  reckon,  who  camps  over  there  with 
his  legions:  a  Caesar,  hog-latin  from  Hanover,  who 
would  make  the  Atlantic  his  channel — who  hires  his 
own  German  breed  to  help  suppress  English  freedom 
in  both  England  and  America,  making  his  chancellors 
his  apes  and  his  commoners  his  minions.  I'd  rather 
you  called  me  Hannibal-in-a-cocked-hat  than  such  a 
Hessian  Roman! 

HAMILTON 

I  am  well  corrected,  Sir.  I  cannot  gainsay — the 
cocked  hat. 

[With  swift  ardour,  going  near  to  him.] 

But  oh,  my  dear  General,  I  want  you  only  to  know 
my  utter  conviction  of  this  night! 


186  WASHINGTON  [Acx  II 

WASHINGTON 

[Looking  at  him — slowly.] 
Your  conviction,  son? 

HAMILTON 

This  night  is  the  beginning  of  the  world. — Darkness 
was  over  the  face  of  the  deep,  and  He  said,  "Let  there 
be  light!" 

WASHINGTON 

[Murmurs.] 
And  there  was  light. 

HAMILTON 

And  there  was  light! 

WASHINGTON 

Without  form  and  void — and  after  that — light  and 
order. 

HAMILTON 

Order — and  organic  structure:  a  new  world — a 
new-builded  unity — a  new  self-government  above  war 
ring  tribes — a  commonwealth  above  kings — and  its 
name,  America! 

WASHINGTON 

You  are  young — and  you  have  seen  it. 

HAMILTON 

[Ardently.] 
I  see  it,  Sirl 


ACT  II]  WASHINGTON  187 

WASHINGTON 

I  am  getting  old — but  I  too  have  seen  it — darkly. 
Old  eyes  and  young  must  work  together,  boy.  Will 
finds  its  way. 

HAMILTON 

And  the  will  is  here. 

WASHINGTON 

Ah?— Where? 

HAMILTON 

[With  a  reverent  smile.} 
Under  that  crumpled  hat,  Sir. 

WASHINGTON 

[Smiling     back     faintly — speaks,     after     a 
pause.} 
The  boats  are  ready? 

HAMILTON 

On  the  face  of  the  deep. 

WASHINGTON 

Over  there — no  crossing  back.  Over  there — are 
the  looted  homes  of  freemen,  and  the  German  loot 
ers — keeping  the  birth  of  Christ,  there.  Over  that 
water,  my  boy,  is  our  final  stake:  'tis  fight  to  a  finish. 

HAMILTON 

And  fight — for  the  beginning:  our  commonwealth 
above  kings! 


188  WASHINGTON  [Acx  II 

WASHINGTON 

In  the  beginning — there  was  a  word  spoken — a 
watchword — and  the  stars  held  their  watch  ever  after. 

[From  the  distance,  on  the  right,  a  single  faint 
bugle-note  is  heard .] 

HAMILTON 

0  Sir,  yes!  Our  watchword:  the  men  are  waiting 
for  it. 

WASHINGTON 

[Mutters,  looking  off.] 
No  stars  yet  tonight! 

HAMILTON 

[With  fervour.] 

You  will  give  it,  Sir — you  alone.  I'll  go  tell  them. 
This  pad,  Sir:  write  it  on  this;  I'll  return  in  a  moment 
ind  get  it.  I  beg  of  you,  Sir, — the  watchword! 

[Handing  to  WASHINGTON  a  little  pad  of 
paper,  HAMILTON  goes  swiftly  off  in  the  dark 
ness,  right. 

Left  alone,  WASHINGTON  continues  muttering 
to  himself.] 

WASHINGTON 

Above  warring  tribes.  Out  of  the  void — a  form. 
And  there  was  light  of  stars — and  order.  Void,  and 
then — victory! 


ACT  II]  WASHINGTON  189 

[Slowly — his  lips  still  murmuring — he  begins 
to  pace  back  and  forth,  his  hands  clutched  behind 
him. 

While  he  does  so,  out  of  the  night,  a  low,  flute- 
like  music  plays  softly  the  air  of  6Raggle~taggle 
Gypsies.9 

As  the  melody  ceases,  WASHINGTON  pauses  (at 
the  left)  by  the  tree-bole,  that  forms  there  a  col 
umn  for  the  arch-like  opening  of  snow-crusted 
evergreens. 

From  there — as  he  moves  again  slowly  down 
to  the  log  by  the  fire,  and  sits  there,  holding  the 
little  pad  in  his  left  hand — he  is  followed  from 
behind  by  a  dim-robed  FIGURE  in  red,  its  face 
cowled  in  deep  shadow,  its  arms  crossed  in  large 
folds  of  its  dark  garment. 

Pausing  for  a  moment  behind  him,  where  he 
sits,  the  FIGURE  bends  above  him  in  the  firelight. 

Reaching  a  shadowy  arm,  it  touches  with  its 
right  hand  the  right  hand  of  WASHINGTON,  poised 
with  a  pencil  to  write. 

At  the  touch,  once  more,  faintly  a  bugle  is 
heard,  the  hand  of  WASHINGTON  writes,  and  the 
bugle-note  dies  away  as  the  FIGURE  steals  silently 
back  to  the  centre  of  the  snowy  arch. 

WASHINGTON  does  not  move  or  speak;  but  now, 
from  the  right,  low  voices  are  heard  and  HAM 
ILTON  reappears.  Glimpsed  with  him  for  a  mo 
ment  are  the  forms  of  Tom  Paine  and  two  or 


190  WASHINGTON  [Acr  II 

three  others  in  regimentals,  who  retire  at  a  ges 
ture  from  HAMILTON. 

Approaching  WASHINGTON,  HAMILTON  £5  about 
to  speak,  but  checks  himself  at  the  other's  intent 
posture  of  absorption — his  open  left  hand  hold 
ing  extended  the  little  pad. 

Seeing  this,  HAMILTON — drawing  closer — 
glances  at  it  in  the  firelight,  and  reads:] 

HAMILTON 

[Murmuring  low.] 
Victory  or  death. 

[Then,  swiftly  in  silence  returning  toward  the 
dimness,  right,  he  speaks  in  vibrant  tone:] 
Victory  or  death! 

[As  he  disappears,  the  Voice  of  TOM  PAINE 
answers  from  farther  off:  "Victory  or  death!" 

Still  farther,  then,  in  the  distance,  other  Voices 
call  faintly  to  each  other:  "Victory  or  death!" 

These  Voices  have  hardly  ceased,  when  once 
more  a  far  bugle  is  heard. 

WASHINGTON  stirs  slightly,  clutching  his  hands 
before  him. 

Now  the  bugle  is  answered  by  another,  and  in 
the  arched  middleground,  the  DIM -RED  FIGURE 
Z7i  the  Cowl  quivers  with  deepening  colour. 

WASHINGTON  tightens  the  great  joints  of  his 
hands,  and  breathes  heavily. 


ACT  II]  WASHINGTON  191 

And  now,  through  the  dark,  increasingly,  the 
upblowing  notes  of  bugles  begin  to  rise,  like 
irises  of  sound.  And  as  they  rise,  the  grey 
of  gust-blurred  moonlight  in  the  background 
clears  to  a  pallid  blue,  which  deepens  and — fill 
ing  swiftly  with  stars — takes  on  a  glowing  inten 
sity  of  azure. 

Against  this  sky  of  stars,  impanelled  by  the 
shadowy  arch,  the  red  of  the  cowled  FIGURE 
looms  and  dilates  with  the  sanguine  richness  of 
flame. 

And  now  the  bugles — as  many  as  the  stars — 
magnify  their  blaring  notes  to  a  martial  revelry 
of  music,  crashing  the  dark  with  their  silver  and 
brazen  peals. 

Staring  upward  in  the  midst  of  this  sound  and 
the  colour  behind  him,  WASHINGTON  starts  to  his 
feet  in  the  foreground — both  arms  upraised  in  a 
gesture  immense  and  terrible — his  voice  break 
ing  with  sharp  joy,  as  he  cries  hoarsely  aloud:] 

WASHINGTON 

Victory!     Lord  God  of  battles — victory! 


END   OF   ACT   II 


ACT  III 
AND  EPILOGUE 


ACT  III 

TENTH  ACTION 

The  rise  of  the  theatre  curtain  discovers  the  blue  cur- 
tains  closed  at  the  centre.  Behind  them  is  heard 
a  fiddle  playing  and  the  voice  of  QUILLOQUON 
singing. 

Immediately,  as  the  blue  curtains  draw  back  half  the 
width  of  the  stage  opening,  a  burst  of  gorgeous 
colour  meets  the  eye. 

In  a  scene  of  shallow  depth,  the  entire  back  wall  con 
sists  of  a  resplendent  painted  canvas,  in  front  of 
which,  at  the  right,  is  a  step-ladder. 

On  this  is  standing  a  YOUNG  MAN — clad  in  a  long 
flowing  robe  of  blue  l  worn  over  a  British  offi 
cer's  uniform.  At  either  side  of  him,  standing 
on  boxes — are  a  BOY  and  a  GIRL,  each  holding 
a  pot  of  paint.  The  young  Man — slender,  hand 
some,  dark — holds  several  brushes,  with  one  of 
which  he  is  busily  putting  final  touches  to  the 
design  on  the  canvas. 

At  left  and  right,  the  scene  is  closed  in  by  great  folds 
of  blue  hanging  curtains,  on  which — informally 

1  The  design  and  colour  of  this  robe  are  the  same  as 
the  robe  of  THE  THEATRE,  in  the  Prelude. 

195 


196  WASHINGTON          [Acx  III 

pinned — are  drawings  and  paintings  of  scene- 
designs. 

in  a  great  chair  (right),  over  which  is  thrown  a  rich 
hued  tapestry,  sits  a  stout  MIDDLE-AGED  MAN,  in 
the  uniform  of  a  British  General.  Near  him, 
standing,  is  a  tall  Man,  with  fierce  black  beard, 
long  moustachios,  towering  brass  helmet  and  the 
uniform  of  a  HESSIAN  OFFICER. 

In  the  left  background — in  front  of  some  tall  deco 
rated  screens — stands  the  FIDDLER  (QuiLLO- 
QUON),  dressed  in  a  strange  bright-coloured 
smock,  worn  over  his  work  clothes. 

The  two  Children  are  clad  likewise,  and — where  they 
stand  holding  the  paint-pots — join  in  the  chorus 
of  the  ballad-song,  to  which  QUILLOQUON  partly 
fiddles — partly  directs  them  with  his  bow — as  he 
sings. 

Midway  of  the  song's  first  stanza  the  curtains  part. 

THE    FIDDLER 

A  fighter  would  a-fiddling  go ; 
Instead  of  his  sword  he  carried  a  bow, 
All  for  to  fiddle  it  high  and  low 
Among  the  greenrooms  gay,  0! 

[FIDDLER  AND  CHILDREN] 
Jackie,  boy! — Master! 
Sing  ye  well? — very  well! 

Hey  down,  ho  down, 

Derry,  derry  down! 
Among  the  greenrooms  gay,  0! 


ACT  III]  WASHINGTON  197 

To  my  Hey  down,  down! 
With  my  Ho  down,  down! 

Hey  down,  ho  down, 

Derry,  derry  down! 
Among  the  greenrooms  gay,  0! 

THE   FIDDLER 

He  fiddled  all  day  until  'twas  night, 
He  fiddled  all  dark  until  'twas  light, 
All  for  to  fiddle  away  the  fight 
Among  the  greenrooms  gay,  0! 
[FIDDLER  AND  CHILDREN] 
Jackie,  boy! — Master. 
Sing  ye  well? — very  well! 
Hey  down,  ho  down, 
Derry,  derry  down! 
Among  the  greenrooms  gay,  01 
[As  the  song  concludes,  the  BRITISH  OFFICER, 
slapping  his  thigh,  exclaims  loudly:] 

THE    BRITISH    OFFICER 

Bravo,  Master  Scene-shifter!     You  sing  well,  with 
your  Jackie-boy,  and  Jill,  too. 

[To  the  YOUNG  MAN  on  the  ladder.] 
Where  did  you  pick  up  this  fellow? 

THE   YOUNG   MAN 

Oh,   here   in  the  theatre,   General:   a  jack-of -all- 
trades.     He  helps  me  here  in  the  scene-loft. 
[Pointing.] 

How  do  you  like  our  new  curtain,  for  the  Old 
South? 


198  WASHINGTON          [Acr  III 

THE   BRITISH    OFFICER 

Prodigious  good!  A  touch  of  extravagance  that 
takes  me.  Your  brush  is  as  gallant  as  your  sword, 
Captain  Andre. 

THE   YOUNG   MAN 

[Turns  with  a  smile  and  slight  bow.] 
Sir  William  Howe  does  me  honour. 

HOWE 

Devil  a  bit!  I  saw  your  new  drop-scene  at  the  last 
performance — that  landscape  and  cascade.  Hogarth 
himself  couldn't  beat  it.  And  so  this  is  the  new  cur 
tain  for  tomorrow  night? 

ANDRE 

Yes,  General.     Tis  just  finished. 

[Tossing  his  brushes  to  QUILLOQUON,  he  comes 
down  the  ladder,  while  QUILLOQUON  and  the 
Children  go  off  through  the  curtains,  right.] 

HOWE 
What's  the  play? 

ANDRE 

"Douglas." 

HOWE 
Who  plays  the  title-part? 

ANDRE 

I  do,  Sir. 


ACT  III]          WASHINGTON  199 

HOWE 

Well  said,  youngster!  You'll  provide  my  staff  with 
Garrick  and  Sir  Joshua  combined.  Who  gives  the 
Prologue? 

ANDRE 

I  plead  very  guilty,  Sir.     I've  wrote  it. 

HOWE 

What — Oliver  Goldsmith,  too!  Sure,  Captain 
Andre,  I  must  raise  your  rank  to  Major  of  Dramatics. 

ANDRE 

[With  a  laugh.] 

'Twould  be  only  fitting,  Sir  William.  You  your 
self,  Sir,  have  converted  the  theatre  of  Mars  to  the 
temple  of  Melpomone.  Thanks  to  you,  Philadelphia 
is  now  the  Athens  of  America. 

THE   HESSIAN    OFFICER 
[With  a  strong  German  accent.] 
Ya — so.     Here  is  now  goot  vinter  quarters :  plendy 
of  goot  music  and  liquors. 

HOWE 

And  sour-krout,  Knyphausen!     Better  than  Tren 
ton,  a  year  ago,  eh?     How  about  that  serenade  the 
Yankees  gave  you  Hessians  o'  Christmas  night, — ha? 
[Ho WE  roars  with  laughter.] 


200  WASHINGTON          [Acr  III 

KNYPHAUSEN 

De  tamn  Yankees  dey  eat  deir  own  medicine  now, 
General.  You  hear  de  last  news  from  Valley  Forge — 
ya?  «  , 

HOWE 
Eh?— What  news? 

KNYPHAUSEN 

Meester  Vashington  he  is  now  tie  up  his  breeches 
mit  wrapping  strings.  For  why? — he  is  cut  off  his 
last  button,  to  buy  him  a  frozen  potato. — Haha ! 

HOWE 

Ha!  Hath  he?  Well,  well,  poor  old  fox,  he  shall 
have  a  hot  sirloin — when  I  catch  him.  He's  a  gentle 
man  and  a  sportsman — George  Washington.  Next 
spring — after  I've  frozen  out  his  little  rebellion — he 
and  I  shall  go  duck-shooting  together.  'Tis  jollier 
sport  than  this  man-hunting. 

KNYPHAUSEN 

Sport!  Ya — dere  you  are,  you  Anglo-Saxons! 
Always  you  play  your  var — by  de  pretty  rules,  like  a 
game. 

HOWE 
A  game — well,  what  the  devil  else  is  war? 

KNYPHAUSEN 

Var  is  business,  Sir  Villiam. 


ACT  III]  WASHINGTON  201 

HOWE 

Business  be  damned!  War  is  a  great  national 
sport,  Sir.  Learn  the  rules  and  play  according. 

KNYPHAUSEN 

Rules?  Beat  your  enemy:  dat  is  all  de  rules. 
But  see  here  your  var  business!  Here  is  not  in  all 
America  vone  town  vere  you  tax  de  habitants.  My 
men — dey  must  pay  de  farmers  for  deir  chickens  mit 
cash,  and  say  dem  "tank  you"  besides.  Potzhimmel! 
Vat  for  a  var! 

HOWE 
[Rising.] 

Knyphausen,  I'm  captain  of  this  cricket  match. 
When  the  boys  in  your  country  learn  bat-and-ball, 
they'll  learn  to  understand  British  soldiers:  aye,  Sir, 
and  American. — Now,  Andre,  I  clean  forgot:  I  must 
be  off. 

ANDRE 

So  soon,  General? 

HOWE 

I've  lost  my  dog.  God  above,  Sir,  Jack!  my  best 
hound — I've  lost  him.  Took  first  prize  at  the  show. 
I  wouldn't  swap  him  for  a  battalion.  I  must  set  the 
town  in  search. 

[Taking  out  and  handing  a  paper.] 
Here,  Knyphausen,  you  have  legs — hurry  ahead  of 
me  to  Headquarters.     This  paper  gives  his  full  inven- 


202  WASHINGTON  [Aci  III 

tory. — Superb  foxhound — good  old  Jack!     Aye,  Sir, 
— a  dozen  battalions! 


KNYPHAUSEN 

[Taking  the  paper.} 
For  vone  dog! 

[Scowling  with  savage  disdain.] 
Gotteswillen ! — Vat  for  a  var! 

[As  he  is  about  to  stride  out  through  the  cur 
tains,  Ieft9  two  young  WOMEN  appear  there — one 
in  a  bright-coloured  gown,  the  other  dressed  in 
grey  like  a  Quaker.  Seeing  the  Hessian,  they 
start  aside — the  first  suppressing  a  scream,  as 
KNYPHAUSEN,  bowing  fiercely,  brushes  rudely 
past  and  goes  out,  muttering:} 
Pardon,  Mesdames! 

THE   FIRST   YOUNG  WOMAN 

0 — Captain  Andre! 

ANDRE 

Mistress  Polly, — ladies! 

POLLY 

[Looking  after  KNYPHAUSEN.] 
Why  is  one  of  those  here? 

HOWE 

[Bursting  out.] 
God  knows,  Madam!     His  Majesty  hired  'em,  not 


ACT  III]          WASHINGTON  203 

me.  Manners  of  mud-turtles!  That  one  is  a  colonel, 
but  he  butters  his  bread  with  his  thumb. — Pray  intro 
duce  me,  Captain. 

ANDRE 

Sir  William — I  present  you  to  Mistress  Polly  Red 
mond,  and — 

POLLY 

And  my  friend, — Captain, — Mistress  Betsy  Ross: 
both  loyal  rebels,  Sir  William! 

i  . 

HOWE 

[Bowing,  as  they  both  curtsy.] 
I  bow  to  your  conquest,  fair  enemies! 

POLLY 

Oh,  but  Captain,  I've  only  a  minute.     I've  run  in 
to  give  you  my  answer. 

ANDRE 

Ah!     So  you  will  sing  for  us  tomorrow  night — be 
fore  my  Prologue? 

POLLY 

All  my  repertoire! 

ANDRE 

I  am  overwhelmed. 

POLLY 

You  will  be- — when  you  hear  me! 


204  WASHINGTON          [Acx  III 

[Handing  a  paper.} 
Look  at  my  numbers. 

ANDRE 

[Reads.] 

'War  and  Washington';  'Cooped  up  in  a  Town!' 
'Burgoyne's  Defeat' — 

[Bursting  into  gay  laughter.] 

Aha,  Sir  William — you  hear?  Reserve  your  box 
early!  'Twill  be  a  royal  benefit — for  rebels! 

HOWE 

[Joining  his  laughter.] 

Standing  room  only,  I'll  wager!  Put  me  down  for 
two  boxes — 

[With  another  bow.] 
if  Mistress  Betsy  will  be  there  to  join  the  rebellion. 

BETSY 

I  thank  thee,  Sir:  but  'tis  the  privilege  of  a  Friend 
to  be  neutral.  I  attend  not  the  playhouse. 

HOWE 

Neutral?  Never  with  those  eyes,  fair  Mistress! 
Nay,  under  that  grey  cloak  of  a  Friend,  I  warrant 
you'll  draw  forth  a  shining  blade  for  Washington! 

BETSY 

Only  a  needle,  Sir.  Polly  sings  for  her  country: 
I  can  only  sew. 

[Under  her  cloak  is  visible  a  cloth  bundle, 


ACT  III]  WASHINGTON  205 

with  needle  and  thread — through  the  wrapping 
of  which  is  glimpsed  a  gleam  of  red.  white  and 
blue.] 

HOWE 

[Glancing.] 
What's  here? 

[In  confusion  BETSY  covers  the  bundle,  as 
POLLY  steps  between  her  and  HOWE.] 

POLLY 
[Saucily.] 

Shirts — for  Valley  Forge  soldiers,  Sir.  Confiscate 
'em — for  his  Majesty! 

HOWE 

Ah — unneutral  needle ! 
[Pressing  his  heart.] 

Already,  Mistress  Betsy,  thou  hast  stabbed  me  mor 
tally — here.     I  must  fly  for  help — to  Headquarters. 
[Going.] 

Captain,  reserve  me  my  box.  Recover  my  lost 
heart — and  my  dog.  Dear  old  Jack!  Damn  Hes 
sians!  Splendid  hound!  Ladies,  your  most  de 
voted!  Ah — bye  the  bye!  I  pray  you  will  all  dine 
with  me  shortly — to  meet  the  Marquis  of  Lafayette 
and  General  Washington.  I'm  expecting  'em  soon — 
by  pressing  invitation.  Long  live  Washington — 
under  my  roof!  God  save  the  king — and  my  good 
old  Jack!  Worth  twenty  battalions — that  dog! 


206  WASHINGTON          [Acr  III 

[Limping  off  on  his  cane,  HOWE  disappears 
through  the  curtains.} 

POLLY 

Funny  old  dragon! 
[To  ANDRE.] 
We  must  be  going,  too! 

ANDRE 

Nay,  charmer  of  dragons:  stay  one  moment. 

[As  she  waves  good-bye  to  him.} 
Not  if  I  show  you  a  secret? 

POLLY 

[Hesitating.] 
Secret? 

ANDRE 

A  grand  state  secret. — Behind  those  screens! 

POLLY 

Oh!— Stop,  Betsy.— Tis  fate!     We  are— spies! 

[Returning,  curious.] 
I've  always  felt  I  should  hang  for  a  state  secret. 

ANDRE 

So  have  I,  Mistress  Polly!     Resist  not  fate! 

POLLY 

[Awesomely.] 
Must  I  swear  not  to  tell? 


ACT  III]  WASHINGTON  207 

ANDRE 

You  must  swear  to  tell  all  Philadelphia — except  Sir 
William. 

POLLY 

[Raising  her  right  hand.] 
Swear,  Betsy! 

ANDRE 
Look! 

[He  puts  aside  the  screens,  revealing  behind 
them  a  gorgeous  array  of  dresses,  costumes  and 
dyed  cloths,  hanging  over  standards.] 

POLLY 

0  tempter  of  Eve! — What  are  those? 

ANDRE 

[Taking  forth  some  of  the  costumes  and  drap 
ing  them  over  the  step-ladder.] 
For  my  Mischianza! 

POLLY 

Miss — what? 

ANDRE 

My  pageant — the  first  in  America:  a  medley  of 
masques  and  music  and  dances!  Tis  for  next  spring 
— in  honour  of  Sir  William.  Philadelphia  shall  go 
arrayed  like  Tyre  and  Sidon. 


208  WASHINGTON          [Acr  III 

BETSY 

[With  grave  feeling.] 

While  our  patriot  army  goes  naked. — Polly,  come 
away! 

ANDRE 

[Showing  a  robe  of  white  silk,  with  spangled 
pink  sash.] 

Look!     This  Polonaise — for  a  Lady  of  the  Blended 
Rose. 

POLLY 
[Snatching  it  from  him.] 

0  rapture! 

ANDRE 

Tis  for  you,  Mistress  Polly.     Picture  yourself  in 
a  veil  of  silver  lace,  with  this  headdress  of  pearls! 
[Showing  another  robe,  with  black  sash.] 

And  this — for  a  Lady  of  the  Burning  Mountain : — 
for  your  friend,  if  she  will  deign  to  wear  it. 

BETSY 

1  will  die  before  wearing  it. 

POLLY 

[Pressing  the  robe  to  her  heart.] 
I  will  die — after!     Captain,  array  me  in  this  robe: 
shoot  me  at  sunrise,  and  bury  me  in  a  crystal  casket — 
at  the  feet  of  my  hero,  Washington! 


ACT  III]  WASHINGTON  209 

BETSY 

Polly,  thou  art  gone  daft  with  thy  theatre  crazes. 
Living  or  dead,  let  us  be  clothed  in  our  duty. 

ANDRE 

'Living  or  dead,  let  me  but  be  renowned!' — That's 
a  line  I  speak  tomorrow  night,  in  my  part  of  Douglas. 
Ah,  dutiful  Mistress  Ross,  do  not  scorn  too  much  our 
theatre's  art.  My  duty  is  soldiering;  yours — 'tis  sew 
ing.  Yet  it  may  be  that  your  life-task  and  mine  to 
day — all  our  hearts'  devotion  to  peace  or  war — shall 
survive  tomorrow  only  in  a  player's  part — or  the 
refrain  of  a  song. 

BETSY 

Duty,  Sir,  thinks  not  of  survival. 

POLLY 

But  beauty  longs  for  it,  Betsy.  Remember  our 
Washington,  even  at  Valley  Forge,  hath  a  theatre — 
for  our  starving  patriots.  They  lack  for  clothes  and 
bread— but  not  for  players. 

BETSY 

[Murmurs.] 
Valley  Forge! 

ANDRE 

The  art  we  share  should  heal  our  enmities.  I  pray 
it  will. 

[Dreamily,  from  nearby,  strings  of  a  dulcimer 
begin  to  play — a  melody  pensive  and  minor. 


210  WASHINGTON          [Acr  III 

BETSY,  clutching  tighter  her  wrapped  bundle, 
stands  gazing — her  eyes  fixed  far  off.] 

BETSY 

[Murmurs  again.] 
Valley  Forge! 

[And  now,  to  the  dulcimer,  the  Voice  of  QUIL- 
LOQUON  is  heard  singing.] 

THE    VOICE    OF   QUILLOQUON 

She  leaned  herself  against  a  thorn, 

All  alone  and  aloney, 
And  there  her  firstling  sons  were  born, 

Down  by  the  cold  hill-sidey. 

[ POLLY  looks  questioning  toward  ANDRE,  who 
answers  her  look  quietly.] 

ANDRE 

An  old  ballad. 

THE   VOICE   OF   QUILLOQUON 

[Sings  on.] 

She  pulled  down  her  dark,  dark  hair, 

All  alone  and  aloney, 
And  bound  it  round  their  limbs  so  bare, 

Down  by  the  cold  hill-sidey. 

She  pulled  out  her  snow-white  breast, 

All  alone  and  aloney, 
And  bid  them  suck — 'twould  be  her  last, 

Down  by  the  cold  hill-sidey. 


ACT  III]  WASHINGTON  211 

BETSY 

[Murmurs.] 
The  cold  hill  side. 

[She  turns  toward  the  curtained  entrance. 
ANDRE  speaks  to  her.] 

ANDRE 

Pray,  Mistress,  wait!  We  are  enemies — only  in 
prose.  In  the  heart  of  song,  my  England  is  yours, 
your  America — mine.  May  we  not  be  friends? 

BETSY 

To  be  a  Friend,  Sir,  is  my  faith.  Yet  there  are 
times  when  friendship  must  be  fought  for. — 0  Polly, 
— come! 

[She  goes  swiftly  out,  left.     Polly  is  follow 
ing.] 

ANDRE 

And  you — ? 

POLLY 

[Pausing  at  the  entrance,   hands  the  pearl 
headdress  to  ANDRE.] 

Dear  Captain,  fate  may  make  us  spies — but  never 
traitors. 

ANDRE 

[Snatches  her  hand,  kissing  it.] 
Lady  of  fate! 

[Restraining  an   impetuous   gesture,   POLLY 
hurries  out. 


212  WASHINGTON          [Acr  III 

Left  alone,  ANDRE  turns  slowly  back.     The 
dulcimer  is  still  playing.     Looking  at  the  pearls 
in  his  hand,  ANDRE  murmurs  low:] 
Spies — but  never  traitors. 

(Eighth  Transition) 

[Through  the  curtains,  right,  QUILLOQUON  en 
ters  with  the  Children.  As  they  approach,  their 
forms  and  the  figure  of  ANDRE  melt  into  greyish 
darkness,  while  their  voices  are  singing.] 

THE    VOICE    OF   QUILLOQUON 

If  God  were  here,  0  children  mine, 

All  alone  and  aloney, 
He'd  wrap  you  in  the  warm  wool  fine, 

Down  by  the  cold  hill-sidey. 

(THE  CHILDREN) 
0  Mother  dear,  whose  eyes  are  there, 

All  alone  and  aloney, 
A-shining  through  your  dark,  dark  hair, 

Down  by  the  cold  hill-sidey? 

(QUILLOQUON) 
If  God  it  were,  0  children  mine, 

All  alone  and  aloney, 
He'd  warm  your  hearts  with  His  red  wine, 

Down  by  the  cold  hill-sidey. 


ACT  III]  WASHINGTON  213 

(THE  CHILDREN) 
0  Mother  dear,  His  milk  is  best, 

All  alone  and  aloney, 
That  warms  us  from  your  snow-white  breast,  , 

Down  by  the  cold  hill-sidey. 


ELEVENTH  ACTION 

A  flurry  of  grey  light  breaks  the  dark  in  the  right 
middleground. 

Vaguely  it  reveals  the  interior  of  a  large  tent,  on  the 
left  divided  by  the  rough  stone  back  of  a  fire 
place — with  tile  chimney  piercing  the  sloped 
cloth  roofing — into  a  shallow  and  a  deep  recess, 
the  latter  leading  beyond  sight  in  the  background. 

With  the  flurry  of  light,  a  swirling  sound  of  sleigh 
bells  bursts  also  through  the  opening  flap  of  an 
incurved  entrance,  the  canvas  portico  of  which 
is  just  visible  outside. 

In  a  gust  of  grey-white  sleet,  huddled  Figures  are  seen 
entering  in  a  group  that  partly  surrounds  a  low 
sledge,  piled  with  ice-crusted  fire-wood.  Har 
nessed  to  the  sledge,  ragged,  storm-drenched  Men 
drag  in  the  load  a  few  feet  and  pause.  Through 
the  low  jingle  of  the  harness9  bells,  the  voice  of 
HAMILTON  is  heard  speaking. 


214  WASHINGTON          [ACT  III 

HAMILTON 

Yes,  this  is  General  Washington's  tent.  Stack  the 
wood  over  yonder.  The  provisions  beyond  there. — • 
Thank  you. 

[Other  SOLDIERS  enter — Men  young,  middle- 
aged  and  old.  Some  are  almost  naked.  Some 
wear  old  dressing  gowns  and  blankets  strapped 
to  their  waists.  On  the  backs  of  two  or  three, 
loaded  provisions  are  tied.  With  them  enter 
HAMILTON  and  PAINE,  also  clad  forlornly. 

Closing  the  tent-flap,  BILLY,  the  black  servant 
— his  scarlet-and-white  livery  now  faded  dun  and 
bedraggled — stands  at  attention. 

In  silence,  save  for  the  faint  tinkling,  the 
sledge  is  drawn  across  beyond  view  into  the 
deeper  recess,  from  which  flickering  shadows  of 
the  Men  are  cast  by  the  fire,  as  they  gather  about 
it,  unloading  and  stacking  the  wood  and  provi 
sions  beyond,  with  low  rumbling  noise  and  occa 
sional  murmur  of  voices. 

Meanwhile,  crossing  the  shallower  recess, 
HAMILTON  opens  there  the  shutter-blinds  of  a 
window  beside  a  table,  letting  in  a  stormy  light, 
as  he  turns  to  his  companion,  and  speaks.] 

Those  harnesses,  Mr.  Paine,  are  made  of  grape 
vines.  Our  horses  are  mostly  dead,  so  we  contrive 
substitutes — with  bells,  for  horse-play. 


ACT  III]  WASHINGTON  215 

PAINE 

Tis  our  nature,  Colonel.  Man  is  your  only  volun 
teer  pack-horse.  To  attain  liberty  he  will  harness  the 
lightning  or  his  own  legs.  Aye,  Sir,  to  develop  our 
divinity,  we  are  the  only  demi-gods  that  dwell  in  the 
temples  of  ground-hogs. 

HAMILTON 

Ground-hogs? 

PAINE 

Valley  Forge  soldiers,  Sir.  This  camp  is  the 
acropolis  of  such  vermin.  Holes  in  a  frozen  hillside 
— from  these  burrowed  altars  we  crawl  out  to  view  our 
shadows  in  the  sun,  and  bear  the  griping  arrows  of 
Phoebus  Apollo. 

HAMILTON 

And  the  malice  of  our  dear  friends.  General 
Washington  bears  the  brunt  of  that. 

PAINE 

What!  Is  the  gossip  true?  Hath  Gates  really 
plotted — ? 

HAMILTON 

Every  back-door  tattle-way.  His  capture  of  Bur- 
goyne's  army  at  Saratoga  hath  puffed  his  head  like 
an  adder's. 

PAINE 

Gates  captured  what  Washington  planned.  That's 
too  easy. 


216  WASHINGTON          [Acx  III 

HAMILTON 

Not  for  Gates.  He  plots  to  obtain  the  chief  com 
mand  now  himself. 

PAINE 
And  Congress  listens? 

HAMILTON 

Behind  their  hands — so.  'Tis  a  cabal — a  monster: 
jealousy,  petty  hate,  false  gossip — beyond  belief. 
They  use  an  upstart  named  Conway.  They  set  loose 
lies — like  hornets.  The  plan  is  to  sting  Washington 
till  he  resigns.  They  know  they  dare  not  remove  him; 
if  they  tried,  all  America  would  rise  and  hang  'em  on 
Liberty  belfry.  So  they  sting  him  in  the  dark. 

PAINE 

Him — their  one  hope!     Are  they  mad? 

HAMILTON 

Yes,  with  envy  of  his  power= — the  power  of  patience. 
Their  latest  attempt  is  to  draw  LaFayette  in  their  net. 
You  know,  when  he  came  from  France  last  summer  to 
fight  with  us,  how  quickly  the  General  took  the  young 
Marquis  to  his  heart.  This  rankles  with  Gates  and 
his  party.  If  they  can  win  LaFayette,  they  think  to 
win  their  cabal. 

PAINE 
And  will  thev  win  him? 


ACT  III]  WASHINGTON  217 

HAMILTON 

When  they  win  heaven's  gate  and  unhinge  it — not 
before.  Young  LaFayette  is  the  heart  of  France — 
and  that  is  incorruptible. 

THE   VOICE    OF   WASHINGTON 

[Calls  low  and  vibrant.] 
Hamilton! 

[HAMILTON  starts. 

Through  the  tent- flap,  in  another  gust  of  sleet , 
WASHINGTON  enters — his  cloak  wrapped  round  a 
human  form,  which  he  bears  in  his  arms,  the  head 
and  one  stiff  naked  arm  drooping  limp. 

Glancing  quickly  about,  WASHINGTON  speaks 
again,  staccato.] 
Brandy! 

[HAMILTON  reaches  for  a  flask  on  the  table. 

Bending  over  in  the  background,  WASHINGTON 

lays  his  burden  on  the  floor,  near  the  centre, 

stoops  down  in  front  of  it,  partly  unwrapping  the 

cloak,  and  motions  to  the  Men  by  the  fireplace:] 

Make  room  there. 

[  The  Men  draw  apart  from  the  fire,  and  move 
forward — peering,  a  bit  listlessly.] 

HAMILTON 

[Hurrying  quietly  with  the  flask.] 
Here,  Sir.     Is  he  hurt? 


218  WASHINGTON          [Acr  III 

WASHINGTON 

Frozen. — Found  him  in  a  snow-drift. 

[Taking  the  flask,  he  bends  with  it  to  the  limp 
body,  half  concealed  now  by  the  standing  forms 
of  HAMILTON,  PAINE,  and  others  gathered 
around.} 

PAINE 

[In  a  low  voice.} 
Can  we  help,  General? 

WASHINGTON 

No. 

[For  a  moment,  the  Men  stand  silent,  watching, 
till  WASHINGTON  glances  up  and  speaks  again.  } 
How  far  off  is  the  doctor? 

A   TATTERED    MAN 

[Stepping  forward.} 
I'm  a  doctor  in  my  home  town,  Sir. 

WASHINGTON 

[With  a  gesture.} 
What's  your  verdict?     Is  he  gone? 

THE    MAN 

[Stooping  down,  after  a  little,  rises  again.} 
Gone,  Sir. 

[The  Men  draw  away,  as  WASHINGTON  rises, 
and  mutter  together  as  they  move  off.} 


ACT  III]  WASHINGTON  219 

ONE   MAN 

Oh, — just  another! 

A   SECOND   MAN 

I  knew  him.     He  was  a  sergeant — had  a  young  wife 
and  three  young  'uns. 

[Going  slowly  to  the  table,  WASHINGTON  sets 
down  the  flask;  HAMILTON  stands  near.] 

WASHINGTON 

[Quietly.] 
They  die — like  crickets  in  autumn. 

[Glancing  at  a  paper  on  the  table,  lifts  it  and 
reads:] 
'Unfit  for  service,  by  cause  of  nakedness — 3989.' 

[Glancing  at  HAMILTON.] 
That's  today's  report? 

HAMILTON 

Today's,  your  Excellency. 
[They  confer  together. 

Coming  out  of  the  deeper  recess  with  jingle  of 
sleigh-bells,  the  MEN  in  harness  drag  the  sledge 
toward  the  entrance,  right,  followed  by  the 
others,  talking  low.] 

ONE    MAN 

Same  last  night.     My  soup  was  full  o'  burnt  leaves. 
What  did  you  get? 


220  WASHINGTON  [Acr  III 

ANOTHER 

Fire-cake  and  water!  The  Lord  send  our  Commis 
sary  may  live  on't  too,  till  their  glutted  guts  turn  to 
pasteboard. 

A  THIRD 

Smoke,  lice  and  vomit — that's  my  upkeep. 

PAINE 

[To  the  Group.] 
Want  to  chuck  the  game,  and  go  home,  boys? 

THE   THIRD    MAN 

[Pointing  at  WASHINGTON.] 
Not  while  he  there  sticks! 

THE    SECOND    MAN 

[To  PAINE.] 

You'd  never  ask  us  that,  if  you  had  read  Common- 
sense  and  The  Crisis. 

THE   FIRST    MAN 

[Nudging  the  second.] 
Him  read  'em! — He  wrote  'em! 

[They  stare  after  PAINE,  where  he  moves  off 
with  a  smile.] 

WASHINGTON 

[Coming  over  to  the  sledge,  halts  those  who 
drag  it,  pointing  to  the  dead  man.] 
Take  him  with  you.     He's  done  walking. 


ACT  III]          WASHINGTON  221 

[Several  Men  turn  to  the  body. 
As  they  lift  it  on  the  sledge,  WASHINGTON 
speaks  to  the  tattered  DOCTOR.] 
Find  the  chaplain. 

[Glancing  toward  the  body.] 

See  him  fitly  buried.     Keep  the  cloak  for  yourself 
— 'twas  mine. 

THE   DOCTOR 

Oh,  Sir — thanks. 

THE    SECOND    MAN 

General,  we'll  all  on  us  go  sled-ridin' — to  serve  you. 

THE    THIRD    MAN 

Kingdom-come,  but  no  quittin',  Sir!     Sleigh-bells 
for  church-bells — and  no  sexton  nuther. 

SEVERAL   VOICES 

Aye,  General! 

WASHINGTON 

We're  all  one  team,  lads. 

[Lifting  his  hat  momentarily  above  the  sledge, 
while  those  who  have  hats  remove  theirs  also.] 
A  good  journey — and  rest — to  our  comrade! 

[With  devoted  looks  toward  WASHINGTON — 
while  those  in  front  drag  the  sledge  with  the 
body — all  the  SOLDIERS  go  out,  bending  their 
heads  to  the  snowy  gust  that  beats  through  the 


222  WASHINGTON          [Acr  III 

opened  tent  flap,  which  the  darky  closes  after 
them.] 

PAINE 

[Buttoning  his  coat,  salutes  WASHINGTON.] 
I'll  see  them  a  bit  on  their  way,  General. 

WASHINGTON 

[Noticing  him  for  the  first  time,  grasps  his 
hand  warmly.] 

Ah,  Tom  Paine !  Your  writings  have  lamed  'em  to 
think,  Sir.  You're  worth  a  dozen  commissariats  for 
you  larder  their  souls. 

PAINE 

Thought  is  in  the  air,  Sir;  I  merely  distil  it.  I'm  a 
moonshiner. 

WASHINGTON 

And  your  moonshining  has  warmed  my  army  with 
the  fire-water  of  dreams.  A  fighter  without  dreams 
is  no  soldier;  he's  a  machine.  Machines  break  down 
in  snow-storms — but  not  soldiers.  Bellies  cave  in — 
but  not  courage;  eyes  go  blind — but  not  vision. 
Young  man,  you  have  clarified  our  country's  cause 
for  its  defenders.  Liberty  is  your  debtor.  God  bless 
you! 

PAINE 

He  does,  Sir. — You  are  my  friend. 
[Bowing  swiftly,  he  hurries  out. 
Following  him,  BILLY  closes  the  tent  flap  from 


ACT  III]  WASHINGTON  223 

outside.  Pensively,  WASHINGTON  crosses  to  the 
table,  where  HAMILTON  site  writing  by  a  pile  of 
documents.  HAMILTON  starts  to  rise,  but  sits 
again,  at  a  gesture  from  the  other,  and  continues 
to  write  in  silence. 

On  the  table,  WASHINGTON'S  hand  touches  a 
flute.  He  takes  it  up  and  stands  holding  it. 
Staring  out  of  the  mist-blurred  window,  absently 
he  draws  lines  on  a  pane  with  the  end  of  the  flute. 

The  lines  take  on  roughly  the  outline  of  a  tree. 

Slowly  he  lifts  the  flute  to  his  lips,  and  blows 
on  it  faintly  three  notes 


HAMILTON  glances  up. 

Gathering    some    documents,    he    rises    and 
speaks,  hesitatingly.} 

HAMILTON 

Where  do  you  wish  these  papers  filed.  Sir? 

WASHINGTON 

[Half    aloud — still    staring   at   the   window 
pane.] 
Under  the  sycamore. 

HAMILTON 

I  beg  pardon? 


224  WASHINGTON  [Acr  III 

WASHINGTON 

[With  a  deep-caught  breath — dropping  the 
flute  on  the  table.} 

Ah! — those  papers — 

[Glancing.} 
The  cabal  matter? 

HAMILTON 

Yes,  your  Excellency. 

WASHINGTON 

Destroy  them. — Did  you  write  to  my  farm  man 
ager? 

HAMILTON 

About  draining  the  swamp,  Sir.     Yes. 

WASHINGTON 

Good. 

HAMILTON 

[Lifting  another  paper.} 

This  interrupted  letter  from  Conway  to  General 
Gates? 

WASHINGTON 

[Taking  the  letter,  glances  at  it.} 
Sit  down. 

[HAMILTON  sits  again,  and  writes,  as  WASH 
INGTON — pacing  slowly  back  and  forth — speaks, 
with  deliberation.} 
You  may  take  this  dictation: 


ACT  III]          WASHINGTON  225 

'To  General  Conway,  etc. 
'Sir: 

'A  letter  which  I  received  last  night  contained  the 
following  paragraph: — "In  a  letter  from  General  Con- 
way  to  General  Gates,  he  says,  Heaven  has  deter 
mined  to  save  your  country,  or  a  weak  general  and 
bad  counsellors  would  have  ruined  it." 

'I  am,  Sir,  your  humble  servant' 

Here :  I'll  sign  it. 

[He  bends  over  and  signs.] 

I  think  that  will  spring  their  man  trap — and  bark 
their  own  shins,  if  they  wriggle. 

HAMILTON 

This  letter  to  yourself  from  the  lat  chaplain  of 
Congress — 

WASHINGTON 

Read  it. 

[Taking  up  a  long-stemmed  clay  pipe,  WASH 
INGTON  fills  and  lights  it  at  the  fire,  as  he  listens.] 

HAMILTON 

[Reads.] 

'Your  cities  fall,  one  after  another;  fortress  after 
fortress,  battle  after  battle,  is  lost.  The  enemy's 
army  have  possessed  themselves  of  the  Capital  of 
America.  How  unequal  the  contest!  How  fruitless 
the  expense  of  blood!  Under  so  many  discouraging 


226  WASHINGTON  [Aer  III 

circumstances,  can  virtue,  can  honour,  can  the  love  of 
your  country,  prompt  you  to  proceed?' 

WASHINGTON 

Love  of  my  country? — That's  prime! 

[Reaching  for  the  first  sheet  of  the  letter, 
which  HAMILTON  has  laid  down,  WASHINGTON 
crumples  it,  ignites  it  at  the  fire  and  re-lights  his 
pipe  with  it.] 

HAMILTON 

[After  glancing  with  a  faint  smile,  continues 
reading.] 

'Humanity  itself  calls  upon  you  to  desist.  Your 
army  must  perish  for  want  of  common  necessaries,  or 
thousands  of  innocent  families  must  perish  to  support 
them.  Wherever  they  march,  the  troops  of  the  enemy 
will  pursue,  and  complete  the  destruction  which 
America  herself  has  begun.' 

WASHINGTON 

[With  a  grim  twist  of  his  face.] 
America  begun! 

[He  sits  at  the  table,  opposite  HAMILTON  but 
facing  sideways,  looking  into  the  bowl  of  his 
pipe.] 

HAMILTON 

[Reads.] 
'Perhaps  it  may  be  said  'tis  better  to  die,  than  to  be 


ACT  III]          WASHINGTON  227 

made  slaves.     This  indeed  is  a  splendid  maxim  in 
theory — ' 

WASHINGTON 

[Grunts  deep.] 
Ah! 

HAMILTON 

[Reads.] 

'Perhaps — experimentally  true.     But  when  there 
might  be  a  happy  accommodation — ' 

WASHINGTON 

Ah—? 

HAMILTON 

[Reads.] 
'Sir,  'tis  to  you  alone  your  bleeding  country  looks.' 

WASHINGTON 

[Snorts  low.] 
Me! 

HAMILTON 

[Reads.] 
'Your  penetrating  eye  will  discern  my  meaning.' 

WASHINGTON 

[Glancing  round.] 
It  does. 

HAMILTON 

[Reads.] 

'With  your  own  prudence  and  delicacy,   recom 
mend,  Sir,  to  Congress  the  immediate  cessation  of 


228  WASHINGTON  [Acx  III 

hostilities;  represent  the  necessity  of  rescinding  the 
hasty  and  ill-advised  Declaration  of  Independence — ' 

WASHINGTON 

[Striking  his  closed  fist,  with  the  pipe,  on  the 
table,  shattering  the  pipe.] 
Wait! 

[Quietly.] 
Don't  waste  that  paper. 

[Taking  from  Hamilton  the  remaining  sheets 
of  the  letter,  he  tears  them  in  two  and  hands 
them  back.] 
It  makes  good  tinder. 
[He  rises.] 

HAMILTON 

[Rising  also,  speaks  after  a  pause.] 
To  grow  a  new  world — takes  weeding. 

WASHINGTON 

Aye,  Alec, — and  wabbling  weathercocks! 

Too  hot,  too  cold,  too"  raw,  too  roast — 
'tis  our  human  barometer. 

HAMILTON 

But  our  commonwealth  above  kings,  Sir — 

WASHINGTON 

Will  never  be  built  above  men.     We  must  build 
with  what  we  are,  boy.     After  all — we  have  no  bette*. 


ACT  III]          WASHINGTON  229 

[BiLLY  enters — making  passage  for  two  Men, 
in  long  cloaks,  who  pause  near  the  entrance.] 

BILLY 

[Coming  forward.] 
Marse  Ex'lency — 

WASHINGTON 

Ah,  Billy? 

BILLY 

De  Count  Pulaski,  an'  de  Baron  von  Steuben. 

WASHINGTON 

[Turning  toward  them.] 
Welcome,  gentlemen! 

STEUBEN 

[Saluting  with  precision,  hands  a  document 
and  speaks  with  German  accent.] 
My  report,  Excellency! 

[WASHINGTON  takes  it.] 
I  come  for  vone  only  minute. 

PULASKI 

[  With  a  courtly  bow,  speaks  with  the  accent  of 
a  Pole.] 
And  also  I,  General — to  inquire  of  my  commission. 

WASHINGTON 

Congress  hath  granted  it,  Count.     Tis  here. 


230  WASHINGTON          [  ACT  III 

[Taking  from  Jus  pocket  a  paper,  he  hands  it.] 
You  will  recruit  the  Pulaski  Legion  of  Cavalry. 

[Taking  from  beside  the  fireplace  a  folded 
standard.] 

This  banner  the  Moravian  nuns  of  Bethlehem  have 
made  for  you.  They  send  it  with  their  love  and  rev 
erence. — Pray  accept  my  hand,  Sir.  It  gives  you  the 
grip  of  a  brother  freeman — America  to  Poland. 

PULASKI 

[As  they  clasp  hands.] 
Poland  to  America:  for  free  men — victory! 

[Taking  the  banner  he  bows  again  and — 
joined  by  HAMILTON — goes  toward  the  entrance, 
where  he  converses  a  moment,  before  he  goes 
out.] 

WASHINGTON 

[To  STEUBEN.] 

Well,  Baron:  and  how  do  my  men  progress  with 
your  training? 

STEUBEN 

Ach!  Potzteufel!  Sacre  de  gaucherie  of  des 
badauds!  I  can  curse  dem  no  more. 

WASHINGTON 

[With  a  flitting  smile.] 
You  find  them  different  from  your  Prussians. 


ACT  III]  WASHINGTON  231 

STEUBEN 

Different? — Parbleu!  In  Prussia,  a  soldier  he  is 
born  mit  his  mouth  shut.  But  here — vat  you  tink? 
Ven  I  tell  dem  orders,  dey  ask  me  of  mine  reasons: 
Ja, — reasons,  mein  Gott!  And  I  must  answer  dem, 
too! 

WASHINGTON 
[With  a  short  laugh.] 

A  troublesome  habit,  Baron.  Our  American  coat- 
of-arms  is  a  question-mark. 

STEUBEN 

[With  a  shrug  of  bewilderment.] 
Tis  de  vonder  of  Europe,  General,  how  you  is 
compel  dese  fellows  to  fight  for  vou. 

WASHINGTON 

I  don't  compel  'em,  Sir:  I  can't  prevent  'em.  They 
fight — for  reasons. 

STEUBEN 

Bien!  My  King  of  Prussia — de  great  Friedrich 
— he  is  declare  your  campaign  of  Trenton  de  greatest 
in  dis  century.  And  mit  dese  damn  fools! — Mon 
Dieu,  c'est  genie! 

WASHINGTON 

King  Frederick  is  gracious.  But  I  am  grateful  to 
you,  Baron,  for  bringing  your  superior  discipline  to 
our  green  army.  We  Americans  hate  wars — but  we 


232  WASHINGTON          [Acr  III 

win  'em.     So  we  welcome  your  Prussian  drill — with 
out  Prussian  will. 

STEUBEN 

De  vill — how  is  dat? 

WASHINGTON 

The  will  of  kings,  Sir,  Your  own  king  has  wrote 
of  it  very  frankly.  '  Tis  the  maxim  of  kingcraft,' 
he  says,  'to  despoil  our  neighbours,  for  that  takes 
away  their  means  of  doing  us  injury.  So  we  kings 
must  take  when  we  can,  and  we  are  never  wrong — 
unless  we  have  to  give  back  what  we  have  taken.' 
That,  Sir,  is  the  will  which  the  will  of  America  is 
fighting. 

BILLY 

[Who  has  returned,  comes  forward  with  bub 
bling  excitement.] 
Beggin'  yo'  pardon,  Marse  Ex'lency — 

WASHINGTON 

What  is  it? 

BILLY 

Dey's  a  prisoner  at  de  do',  Sir. 

WASHINGTON 

[Turning  to  HAMILTON.] 
Prisoner!     Have  him  brought  in. 

[HAMILTON  goes  with  BILLY  to  the  entrance 


ACT  III]  WASHINGTON  233 

where  BILLY  speaks  outside,  with  pompous  im 
portance.] 

BILLY 

Admit  de  prisoner! 

[A  ragged  SOLDIER  enters,  leading  a  dog.'} 

WASHINGTON 

[Staring.] 
What's  this — a  fox-hound? 

THE    SOLDIER 

Red-coat,  I  guess,  General.     I'm  a  sentry.     I  cap 
tured  him  on  the  road  to  Philadelphia. 

WASHINGTON 

Captured  him! 

THE    SOLDIER 

[Grinning.] 

Aye,  Sir.     He's  a  British  officer — by  his  collar 
mark. 

WASHINGTON 

[Patting  the  dog,  reads  from  the  collar.] 
General  Sir  William  Howe:     Headquarters.' 

[Bursts  into  laughter,  with  the  others — except 
STEUBEN,  who  looks  on  astonished.] 
Ha,  my  man !     What  prize-money  are  you  claiming 
for  this  haul? 


234  WASHINGTON          [Aer  III 

THE    SOLDIER 

Wall,  General:  ten  thousand  continental  dollars — 
or  a  swig  o'  rum. 

WASHINGTON 

Pass  him  the  flask,  Billy. 

[Pulling  out  a  flask  for  THE  SOLDIER,  BILLY 
retires  with  him,  choking  back  a  fit  of  laughter. 
WASHINGTON — squatting   down,    fondles   the 
dog  in  his  arms.] 

Well,  well,  good  old  Sir  William:  you  mind  me  of 
my  old  Mopsey,  bless  your  heart!  What  you  doin' 
in  Valley  Forge?  Got  cold  feet,  eh,  General?  Come 
over  to  the  enemy?  Good,  Sir! 

[To  HAMILTON.] 

Alexander,  fetch  out  the  potted  calf!  Escort  his 
Excellency  to  the  chimney,  and  give  him  house  warm 
ing. 

[^5  WASHINGTON  rises,  a  clear-ringing  voice 
is  heard  calling  outside.] 

THE  VOICE 
General!     General! — Mon  General! 

WASHINGTON 

[His  face  lighting  with  affection.] 
Ha!     Here's  my  French  boy! 

[Dashing    through    the    entrance,    a    boyish 
YOUNG  MAN,   in  draggled  uniform,  flings  his 


ACT  III]  WASHINGTON  235 

snow-covered  cloak  on  the  floor,  and  rushes  to 
WASHINGTON,  embracing  him.] 

THE   YOUNG   MAN 

[Speaks  swiftly,  with  a  French  accent.] 
My  dear  General,  the  news — you  have  heard  them? 

WASHINGTON 

What  news? 

THE   YOUNG   MAN 

The  post  from  France  'tis  arrived!     They  have  tell 
me  at  the  office.     You  have  receive  dispatches — no? 

WASHINGTON 

No:  not  yet.     [To  HAMILTON.] 

Alexander,  step  over  to  the  office  and  inquire. 

[HAMILTON  throws  on  his  cloak  and  goes  to 
ward  the  door,  giving  over  the  dog  to  BILLY, 
who  leads  it  into  the  deeper  recess  beyond  sight. 

STEUBEN,  about  to  follow,  pauses  as  he  is 
passing  THE  YOUNG  MAN.] 

STEUBEN 

[With  military  salute.] 
General  de  LaFayette! 

LAFAYETTE 

[Bowing  graciously.] 
Bon  jour,  Baron! 


236  WASHINGTON  [Acr  III 

STEUBEN 

[To  HAMILTON.] 
Colonel,  vait:  I  go  mit  you. 

[At  the  door.] 

Dese  dogs  and  Frenchmen — parbleu! — dey  are 
great  in  favour. 

[With  a  laughing  grimace.} 
Potzteufel! 

[He  goes  out  with  HAMILTON.] 

WASHINGTON 

[To  LaFayette  with  solicitude — observing  a 
slight  limp  in  his  walk.] 
The  leg  still  hurts — your  wound  at  Brandy  wine? 

LAFAYETTE 

No,  no — a  nothing:  quite  healed. — 'Tis  the  post, 
my  General:  I  feel  it  prick  in  my  blood:  you  shall 
today  hear  from  Paris — from  Dr.  Franklin.  He  shall 
write  you  of  the  Alliance — France  with  America — 
consummate!  Ah,  my  friend — I  will  then  die  of  joy. 
Mon  ami!  Plus  que  mon  frere — mon  pere! 

[Impetuously,  he  seizes  WASHINGTON'S  hand 
and  kisses  it.~\ 

WASHINGTON 

[Smiling,  draws  him  toward  the  table,  where 
they  sit.] 
Nay,  little  Marquis:  you  have  not  disobeyed  your 


ACT  III]  WASHINGTON  237 

government,  defied  your  relatives,  and  crossed  the 
world  to  fight  for  liberty — just  to  die  of  joy.  What 
would  your  young  wife  say  to  that? 

LAFAYETTE 

[With  pensive  change.] 

Oui — my  wife:  that  was  the  most  hard — to  part 
with  her — and  my  little  Henriette. 

[Animated  again.] 

My  General,  you  must  behold  her — Henriette!  At 
nine  months  she  is  already  grande  dame  and  petite 
coquette:  a  fleur  de  lis,  a  wild  dove,  a  humming-bird 
— the  gesture  of  roses,  a  lisping  of  philosophy — in 
lavender ! 

WASHINGTON 

I  am  her  slave  already. 

LAFAYETTE 

When  you  meet,  you  will  be  her  disciple — like  me: 
she  is  so  wise — so  beautiful — so  young! 

WASHINGTON 

[Taking    LAFAYETTE'S    hands    in    both   his, 
smiles  in  his  face  wistfully.] 
So  young — so  wise!     You,  my  lad,  you  almost 
make  we  wise  and  young  again. 

LAFAYETTE 
[  Wonderingly.  ] 
Me,  my  friend, — you! 


238  WASHINGTON          [ACT  III 

WASHINGTON 

[Deeply.] 

A  wind  in  March  blows  away  dead  leaves  and  rub 
bish.  It  bares  old  trails  to  the  sun  again.  Your 
coming,  boy,  hath  been  like  that  for  me:  green  hills 
again — new  sap  in  old  woods — and  the  big  wind  of 
being  young. 

LAFAYETTE 

[Eagerly.] 

I  know — I  feel:  Tis  not  me:  'tis  the  wind,  big 
with  the  new  world  to  be  born. 

WASHINGTON 

[With  a  grave  smile.] 

Ah?  He  said  that  too, — my  other  son!  We  must 
christen  that  new  world — together. 

LAFAYETTE 

[Leaping  up.] 

Mais,  oui!  But  those  men — in  the  Congress — 
these  cabaleurs,  men  stupid,  bad,  ridiculous — ha! 
They  think  they  shall  lead  me  off  from  your  side. 
This  Conway — fool  preposterous!  This  General 
Gates!  Let  them  know  I  am  a  good  shepherd-dog  of 
freedom,  and  you — my  only  master.  Whistle  for 
me  only :  I  lie  down  at  your  feet. 

[Swiftly  kneeling  beside  WASHINGTON  where 
hs  sits,  he  lays  his  head  against  his  knees.] 


ACT  III]  WASHINGTON  239 

WASHINGTON 

[Rising  with  him.] 

Please — dear  Marquis:  don't  worry  yourself. 
Duty  breeds  enemies.  In  doing  mine,  I  have  made 
many — these  men  in  particular. 

LAFAYETTE 

[Pacing  back  and  forth,  gesticulating.'} 
Them — yes,  they  know  my  frailness — glory:  I 
adore  it — glory!  So  me  they  commission  Major-Gen 
eral — send  me  to  conquer  Canada.  I  go;  I  arrive 
Albany — Veni,  vidi,  ha!  non  vici!  No  men — no 
stores — no  money!  Expedition — what  you  say? — a 
la  wild  goose:  un  fiasco!  Voila!  And  all  for  why? 
For  to  call  me  away  thousand  miles  from  you,  my 
commander. 

[Fiercely.] 
Them!     I  say  to  them — Peste! 

WASHINGTON 

I  hope  you  didn't  say  so. 

LAFAYETTE 

[Brightening  to  a  gay  smile.] 
Say  so — me!  My  General,  I  am  a  Frenchman. 
When  I  met  them,  I  was  for  them  at  dinner  the  guest 
of  honour.  What  I  did  say?  "Gentlemen,"  I  say, 
"I  propose  you  a  toast:  the  health  of  one  only  we  all 
have  delight  to  honour — our  Commander-in-chief, 
Washington!" 


240  WASHINGTON  [Acx  III 

WASHINGTON 

[With  a  sudden  guffaw.] 
And  they  drank  that  toast? 

LAFAYETTE 

[Rippling  with  laughter.] 

In  their  wind-bags!  There  was  much  coughing  in 
the  wine. 

WASHINGTON 

I'll  warrant! 

LAFAYETTE 

And  these — are  patriots!  Ha!  When  I  was  in 
France,  I  say  to  my  thoughts — America :  land  of  souls 
pure!  There  every  man  he  loves  not  himself — but 
only  his  cause,  liberty;  only  his  country,  mankind! 
Then  I  come  to  America,  and  I  meet — some  patriots! 

WASHINGTON 

Gold  ore  is  not  gold,  Marquis.  Yet  there  be  thou 
sands  of  hearts  in  America — pure  gold. 

LAFAYETTE 

[Quickly.] 
Yes,  yes — ten  thousands!     I  know  it! 

WASHINGTON 

So  let  us  forget  the  slag;  yes,  even  your  glory,  boy! 
As  Cato  says  in  the  play: 

'The  post  of  honour  is  a  private  station.' 


ACT  III]  WASHINGTON  241 

After  the  war — come  with  me  to  Mt.  Vernon.  I'll 
show  you  there — better  than  glory — peace. 

LAFAYETTE 

Me  in  your  home! 

[Snatching  his  hand  again.] 

My  friend — you  will  not  laugh?  I  see,  like  in  a 
dr*eam — myself  an  ancestor.  I  see  them — my  little 
Henriette  her  grandchildren — they  are  celebrating 
your  name,  in  worship;  they  are  boasting  to  others: 
"We  LaFayettes — one  of  our  forefathers — he  was 
friend  to  Washington!" — Oui,  mon  ami,  that  shall  be 
my  glory! 

[WASHINGTON — his  jaw  setting  gravely — 
looks  off  through  the  window,  while  LAFAYETTE, 
with  sudden  awe,  releases  his  hand.] 

WASHINGTON 

[Murmurs  low.] 

Valley  Forge — Valley  Forge!  Whatever  happens 
will  be  best. 

LAFAYETTE 

[After  a  pause — quietly.] 
My  General — I  have  forgot — a  message. 

WASHINGTON 

Message — who  from? 

LAFAYETTE 

The  Virginia  officers.     The  oath  of  allegiance  to 


242  WASHINGTON  [ ACT  III 

America,  when  I  ask  them  sign  it — they  say:  No,  not 
them:  'tis  superfluous — an  insult.  They  ask  your 
opinion,  by  word  of  me — Why  should  they  sign?  Do 
you  compel  it? — What  shall  I  tell  them? 

WASHINGTON 

Tell  them,  every  oath  should  be  a  free  act  of  the 
mind.  No  compulsion  can  validate  a  vow.  My 
opinion  is  nothing.  They  have  their  consciences. 
Let  them  swear,  or  not  swear,  by  them. 

LAFAYETTE 

I  will  tell:  I  think  they  will  swear.  I,  a  Frenchman, 
have  sworn. 

[At  the  tent  entrance,  HAMILTON  hurries  in, 
followed  by  a  tattered  fellow,  carrying  a  post- 
bag.     LAFAYETTE  gives  a  joyous  cry.] 
Ah,  the  post! 

HAMILTON 

[Handing  a  letter  to  WASHINGTON.] 
From  Dr.  Franklin,  Sir:  I  know  the  hand. 

WASHINGTON 

[Glancing,  breaks  it  open.] 
From  Paris. 

HAMILTON 

[As  WASHINGTON  reads  to  himself,  turns  to 
LAFAYETTE  and  hands  another  letter.] 
And  this  for  you,  Marquis      I  met  the  post  boy 
on  the  road. 


ACT  III]  WASHINGTON  243 

WASHINGTON 

[Clutching  his  open  letter  tightly. ~\ 
Gentlemen — listen : 

[He  reads.} 

'I  have  the  honour  to  inform  you  that  this  day  the 
Alliance  between  France  and  the  United  States  of 
America  was  officially  signed  and  sealed.' 

HAMILTON   AND    LAFAYETTE 

[In  one  breath.] 
The  Alliance! 

LAFAYETTE 

Ha!     Prophecy  of  my  veins! 

HAMILTON 

Our  first  ally  in  the  Old  World — to  unite  both 
worlds  for  freedom! 

WASHINGTON 

[Turning,  calls  to  BILLY — who  hovers,  curi 
ous,  in  the  left  background.] 

Billy — run  out!  Bid  my  sentries  fire  their  guns — 
fourteen  rounds — for  France  and  the  thirteen  States. 
Bolt!  Use  your  legs! 

BILLY 

Yas'r,  marse  Ex'—!     Hallelujah! 
[He  rushes  out. 
Turning  back,  WASHINGTON  pauses,  looks  at 


244  WASHINGTON  [  ACT  III 

LAFAYETTE  and  HAMILTON — extending  to  both 
of  them  his  hands.  On  either  side,  each  seizes 
his  hand  and  presses  it.] 

WASHINGTON 

Boys — my  sons — young  America  and  new  France! 

HAMILTON 

[Low,  and  ardent.] 
Trenton — has  led  to  Paris. 

LAFAYETTE 

[Vibrant,  elate.] 
Paris — has  come  home  to  Valley  Forge! 

[His  gesture  holds  aloft  the  grasped  letter  in 
his  hand.] 

WASHINGTON 

[Observing  it,  quickly.] 
You,  too — a  letter? 

LAFAYETTE 

From  my  wife.     May  I  open — now? 

WASHINGTON 

Pray,  do!     She  shall  share  our  moment  of  good 
tidings. 

[LAFAYETTE  breaks  open  the  seal,  and  reads 
with  his  eyes. 

Outside  a  gun  is  fired. 


ACT  III]  WASHINGTON  245 

HAMILTON  and  WASHINGTON  look  at  each 
other  and  smile. 

A  second  gun  resounds. 

The  letter  from  LAFAYETTE'S  hand  flutters  to 
the  ground. 

He  presses  his  side — staring. 

WASHINGTON  speaks  with  alarm.] 

WASHINGTON 

Marquis!— What  is  it? 

LAFAYETTE 

[Speaks  low — his  face  rigid.] 
Henriette — she  is  dead — ma  petite  Henriette — 

[Convulsively,  he  clutches  his  face  in  his 
hands  and  turns  against  WASHINGTON'S  breast.] 

WASHINGTON 

[Embracing  him — murmurs  with  tenderness.] 
My  boy! 

[The  still- firing  guns  now  resound  with  men's 
voices  cheering  outside.] 

LAFAYETTE 

[Starts  suddenly  away  from  WASHINGTON — 
his  lifted  face  smiling  strangely — his  features 
twitching.] 

Henriette — listen!     The    guns — L' Alliance — Vive 
la  liberte! 


246  WASHINGTON  [Aer  III 


(Ninth  Transition) 

With  a  burst  of  cheering  outside,  the  Postboy  in  the 
background  raises  his  own  voice — the  voice  of 
QUILLOQUON:  a  louder  gun  explodes,  with  instant 
darkness — out  of  which  the  Balladers  voice 
rings  gaily,  to  a  dance-step  tune  and  rhythm. 

THE   VOICE   OF   QUILLOQUON 

[Sings.] 

Gypsy  Davy  came  over  the  sea, 
To  his  lingo-dingo-dance,  sir: 
God  keep  merry  Amer-i-ca ! 
And  vi-ve  la  bel-le  Fran-ce! 

Ree-attle-attle  dingo-lingo-dingo, 
Ree-attle-attle  dingo-dance,  sir: 

God  keep  merry  Amer-i-ca! 
And  Vi-ve  la  bel-le  Fran-ce! 

[During  this  song,  the  dark  gradually  changes, 
through  dusky  grey  ness,  to  broad  day.] 


TWELFTH  ACTION 

The  light  reveals  a  scene  of  fantastic  design  and  vivid 
colour:  a  triumphal  Archway,  constructed — at 


ACT  III]  WASHINGTON  247 

the  angle  of  a  city  street — in  the  form  of 'an 
arbour. 

At  the  centre,  back,  the  arch  is  festooned  with  splendid 
cloth  of  gold,  draped  from  its  central  keystone, 
from  which  hangs  a  great  shield  l  painted  with 
a  landscape  (the  sun  setting  beyond  water  and 
hills),  its  laurelled  oblong  set  round  with  flags 
and  cannon,  and  the  inscriptions 

Vive  Vale 

Luceo  Discedens  Aucto  Splendore  Resurgam 

The  houses  on  either  side  are  also  draped  in  magnifi 
cent  colour,  through  which  their  colonial  door 
ways  constitute  ways  of  entrance  and  exit,  gar 
landed  and  adorned  with  statues,  in  stucco,  of 
Italianesque  ladies  and  pseudo-classic  fauns. 
Overhead,  the  arbour  roof  is  hung  with  tapes 
tries  florescent  with  designs  of  clustered  fruits 
and  flowers. 

Under  this  gorgeous  archway,  a  drab,  contrasting 
group  of  tattered  American  soldiers  (with  sprigs 
of  evergreen  in  their  hats)  half  surround  a 
ragged  Singer  (QuiLLOQUON).  In  the  back 
ground  others  are  seen  in  excited  pantomime. 

During  this,  from  the  doorway,  right,  two  Figures  steal 
out  and  hasten  furtively  toward  the  background. 
One  is  dressed  in  a  gown  of  white  Polonaise  silk, 
with  pearl  headdress  and  spangled  veil;  the  other 

1  As  designed  by  John  Andre  for  the  Mischianza;  page  98 
of  Lossing's  "Pictorial  Field  Book  of  the  Revolution." 


248  WASHINGTON  [Acx  III 

is  clad  like  a  Mediaeval  Knight,  his  pageant  ar 
mour  almost  concealed  under  folds  of  a  great 
cloak  embroidered  with  coat s-of -arms,  his  face 
half  hidden  by  a  domino  mask. 

QUILLOQUON 

[Singing  and  dancing  to  his  tune.} 
Gypsy  Davy  brought  over  his  squad 

With  their  own  true  love  to  lea-d  'urn, 
For  the  lass  in  the  heart  of  every  lad 

Was  the  Gypsy-Queen  of  Free-dom. 

Ree-attle-attle  dingo-lingo-dingo, 
Ree-attle-attle  dingo-dance,  sir: 

God  keep  merry  Ameri-ca! 
And  Vi-ve  la  bel-le  Fran-ce! 

[The  Soldiers  cheer,  and  look  on  laughing  as 
QUILLOQUON  repeats  his  clog-dance  steps,  to  the 
thrumming  of  his  dulcimer. 

Meantime,  THE  KNIGHT  in  the  domino  mask 
speaks  quick  and  low  to  his  companion.} 

THE   KNIGHT 

Adorable  Mistress  Polly,  adieu!  General  Howe 
and  General  Clinton  are  in  full  retreat.  I  must  join 
them.  Washington  is  already  in  the  city.  Philadel 
phia  is  lost  and  my  heart  with  it. — Keep  this  remnant, 
in  token  of  a  poor  soldier  of  paint  pots. 

[He  cuts  off  a  gold  button,  kisses  it  and  gives 
to  her.] 


ACT  III]          WASHINGTON  249 

POLLY 

Farewell,  Captain  Andre — first  soldier-artist  of 
America!  Come  back  to  us,  when  English  cousins 
are  friends  again.  Meantime,  we  will  hate  your  old 
king — and  adore  your  young  memory. 

ANDRE 

[Ardently,  removing  his  mask.} 
You — Mistress  Polly? 

POLLY 

Polonaise  you  were  to  call  me! — See! 
[Smiling,  she  points  to  her  gown.] 

ANDRE 

[Glancing  from  the  gown  to  the  archway.] 
Ah !  fair  phantasy  of  my  Mischianza !     A  bubble  of 
dreams — 'tis  burst.     But  it  was  beautiful? 

POLLY 

A  triumph  for  all  the  Muses! 

[In  frightened  tone,  as  Soldiers  draw  near.] 
Quick.  Put  on  your  mask.  They'll  see  you. 

[The  two  steal  toward  the  archway,  as  QUIL- 
LOQUON  resumes  his  singing  with  the  Soldiers.] 

QUILLOQUON 
So  hark  now,  every  Free-dom's  man 

And  remember  long  and  well,  sir: 
While  David  stands  with  Jon-a-than, 

The  Devil  he'll  stay  in  hell,  sir. 


250  WASHINGTON  [ ACT  HI 

[Dancing  and  singing  with  the  Soldiers.] 

Ree-attle-attle  dingo-lingo-dingo, 
Ree-attle-attle  dingo-dance,  sir: 

God  keep  merry  Amer-i-ca! 
And  Vi-ve  la  bel-le  Fran-ce! 

[With   his   finale,    QUILLOQUON   dances   off 
through  the  archway,  left.] 

POLLY 

[In  a  low  voice,  to  ANDRE.] 
Escape.     Be  quick.     God  speed  you! 

ANDRE 

[Kissing  her  hand.] 
Till  happier  days! 

[He  hurries  off,  right,  in  the  background. 
A  bugle  blows  outside. 
The  Soldiers  gather  to  attention. 
Outside  The  Voice  of  WASHINGTON  is  heard 
speaking  in  wrathful  fervour.] 

WASHINGTON 

Speculation — peculation!  Those  army  contractors 
are  hogs,  Sir.  Hang  'em  on  a  gibbet  as  high  as  Ha 
inan's,  aye,  nine  times  higher.  Profit-mongers  that 
fatten  on  their  country's  starving — bleed  'em  lean  on 
the  gallows!  Stick  'em  for  swine:  that's  my  vote,  Sir. 


ACT  III]  WASHINGTON  251 

[From  the  left  background,  through  the  arch 
way,  a  Bugler  (QUILLOQUON)  enters,  followed 
by  a  LITTLE  GIRL  and  BOY,  who  walk  backward 
strewing  flowers  before  WASHINGTON,  who  comes 
in  talking  with  a  Civilian,  and  accompanied  by 
LAFAYETTE,  HAMILTON,  and  other  Officers. 

Behind  these  more  Soldiers  and  Civilians  fol 
low. 

POLLY,  unclasping  her  necklace,  tosses  it  in 
WASHINGTON'S  path,  and  makes  him  a  low  cour 
tesy.] 

WASHINGTON 

[Pausing  with  abruptness,  bows  aloofly.] 
Madam — 

[To  his  Orderly,  BILLY.] 
Restore  the  lady's  possessions. 

POLLY 

[As  BILLY  lifts  the  necklace,  to  hand  it  back.] 
Not  mine,  your  Excellency.     Tis  legitimate  loot. 
I  have  but  robbed  the  plunder  chest  of  Tyranny,  to 
make  offering  on  the  altar  of  Freedom. 

WASHINGTON 

[With  a  second  bow  of  stiff  politeness.] 
A  well-meant  sentiment,  Madam.     May  I  inquire 
whence  you  are  from? 


252  WASHINGTON  [Acx  III 

POLLY 

[Twinkling.] 

From  the  right  bank  of  the  Potomac,  General:  one 
o'  your  Jinnies. 

WASHINGTON 

[His  coldness  breaking  with  a  sudden  glow.] 
My  dear  young  lady — your  name? 

POLLY 

Polly   Redmond,   of   Fairfax   County — ten   miles 
from  Mt.  Vernon. 

WASHINGTON 

[With  outright  warmth.] 

Mt.  Vernon!     Dear  Mistress  Polly — ten  times  wel 
come! 

[Kissing  her  hand.] 
Your  devoted  servant. 

[Turning  to  LAFAYETTE.] 
Mistress  Polly — the  Marquis  of  LaFayette. 

LAFAYETTE 

[Bowing  to  her  hand.] 
Chere  dame  de  la  Polonaise! 

WASHINGTON 

[Introducing  the  Civilian.] 

And  President  Laurens — of  the  United  States  Con 
gress. 

[LAURENS  bows.] 


ACT  III]  WASHINGTON  253 

POLLY 

Gentlemen  of  the  Army  and  Congress,  welcome 
home  to  your  Capital. 

[Pointing  to  the  shield  on  the  archway.] 

You  behold!  The  sunset  of  General  Howe  is  the 
rising-sun  of  Washington.  His  Vale,  Sir,  is  your 
Vive — Vive  to  the  heroes  of  Valley  Forge.  But  not 
all  of  us  prisoners  in  Philadelphia  are  butterflies  like 
myself — to  flutter  in  your  path.  I  beg  leave,  Sir,  to 
fetch  forth  from  her  hiding — a  little  moth  in  grey. 

WASHINGTON 

[Smiling.] 

A  moth,  Mistress  Polly? 

POLLY 

A  young  Quakeress,  your  Excellency,  who  spins 
from  her  grey  cocoon  the  bright  colours  of  liberty. 
With  that  silk,  Sir,  the  stars  of  your  exile,  and  the 
stripes  of  your  suffering,  she  has  sewed  in  a  flag  for 
our  country, 

[Smiling.] 

— By  your  own  orders,  General! 

WASHINGTON 

Ah!     I  remember. 

POLLY 

[Calling  at  the  doorstep,  left.] 
Betsy! — Betsy! 


254  WASHINGTON          [Acx  III 

[In  the  doorway  appears  the  young  Quakeress, 
carrying  a  furled  banner.  Seizing  her  gaily  by 
the  arm,  POLLY  brings  her  forward  and  presents 
her,  with  a  curtsy.] 

Your  Excellency  and  Gentlemen — Mistress  Betsy 
Ross,  and  the  first  flag  of  the  United  States  of  Amer 


ica! 


[Unfurling  the  flag,  Betsy  steps  shyly  for 
ward,  extending  it  toward  WASHINGTON. 

There,  as  the  Stripes  and  thirteen  Stars  float 
out,  the  Bugler  (QUILLOQUON)  blows  on  his 
bugle  a  joyous  blast. 


(Tenth  Transition) 

The  blast  of  the  bugle  dies  away  in  utter  darkness, 
through  which  the  voice  of  QUILLOQUON  is  heard 
singing,  to  an  old  ballad  tune: 

QUILLOQUON 

Oh! — I've  lost  my  heart  to  Betsy, 

to  Betsy, 

to  Betsy! 
My  heart  I  cross 
To  Betsy  Ross, 

With  her  glancety,  dancety  bars  and  stars 
Of  the  red  and  white  and  blue. 


ACT  III]          WASHINGTON  255 

[Now,  through  a  narrow  opening  of  the  blue 
curtains,  only  the  flag,  held  by  BETSY,  is  still 
visible,  and  the  form  of  QUILLOQUON  dancing 
before  it  with  the  two  Children,  who  join  in  the 
refrain  of  the  song:] 

Oh! — Because  she  sewed  so  neatly, 

so  neatly, 

so  neatly, 
My  heart  I  cross 
To  Betsy  Ross, 

With  her  glancety,  dancety  bars  and  stars 
Of  the  red  and  white  and  blue. 

[And  now,  in  the  background,  the  form  of  the 
Quakeress  has  disappeared,  and  the  flag  alone 
flutters  like  flame  against  the  dark.] 

And — Wherever  she  waves  so  sweetly, 

so  sweetly, 

so  sweetly, 
My  heart  I  cross 
To  Betsy  Ross, 

With  her  glancety,  dancety  bars  and  stars 
Of  the  red  and  white  and  blue. 

So — -Carry  me  back  to  Betsy, 

to  Betsy, 

to  Betsy, 

My  heart  that's  lost 
To  Betsy  Ross, 


256  WASHINGTON  [ ACT  III 

With  her  glancety,  dancety  bars  and  stars 
Of  the  red  and  white  and  blue. 

[A  deep  gun  resounds. 

During  its  reverberations,  the  blue  curtains 
close.] 


THIRTEENTH  ACTION 

Now,  from  within,  the  thunder  has  become  a  noise  as 
of  distant  battle — far  shouts  of  men  mingled 
with  crashes  and  concussions. 

During  this,  the  blue  curtains  part  again  half  way, 
revealing  a  night  scene — an  Embrasure  in  a  Bat 
tery,  behind  which  the  background  flickers  with 
torchlight  and  smoky  fire. 

Outlined  against  this — half  his  height  above  a  black 
rampart — WASHINGTON  stands,  looking  off, 
right.  Near  him,  the  flag  with  thirteen  stars 
blows  flame-like  on  a  fierce  wind. 

Lower  down,  head  and  shoulders  visible — stands 
KNOX:  crouching  lower  in  shadow — a  THIRD 
OFFICER. 

Occasionally,  all  three  Figures  stand  out  for  an  in 
stant  in  stark  light,  shot  by  gleams  from  breaking 
rockets  beyond. 


Of 

o 


ACT  III]  WASHINGTON  257 

Through  the   battle  noises   their   voices   are  heard 
speaking,  between  pauses  of  dumb  watching. 

KNOX 

Yorktown  is  falling,  General.  Cornwallis  is 
caught  by  pinchers  of  fire:  Hamilton  there  from  the 
right,  LaFayette  from  the  left — he's  nabbed  between 
'em;  and  the  French  fleet  blocks  his  road  to  the  sea. 

WASHINGTON 

[With  tense  calm.] 
My  sons  are  fighting  well. 

KNOX 

Rochambeau's  men  are  yonder. — There's  the  sec 
ond  rocket.  That's  Hamilton's  from  his  redoubt. 
The  third  will  signal  victory. 

THE    THIRD    OFFICER 

[Leaping  up  beside  WASHINGTON.] 
For  God's  sake,  General,  stand  down!     You'll  be 
struck  here.     This  place  is  too  perilous. 

WASHINGTON 

[Still  looking  off.] 
If  you  think  so,  Sir,  you  are  at  liberty  to  step  back. 

KNOX 

[To  the  Officer,  as  he  partly  withdraws.] 
Don't  worry.     Bullets  bark  at  him;  they  never  bite. 


258  WASHINGTON         ACT  III] 

WASHINGTON 

[During  a  lull,  tense  and  deeply.] 
Friend  Knox — my  sword  itches. — How  many  years 
has  it  been? 

KNOX 

Six  years  we've  been  at  it,  General.     Now — only  a 
moment  more! 

WASHINGTON 

One  moment — and  a  thousand  years! 

KNOX 

[Points,  shouting  aloud.] 
See  there — it  breaks — the  third  rocket! 

[Grasping  WASHINGTON'S  hand.] 
Huzza! 

WASHINGTON 

The  work  is  done,  and  well  done. — Bring  me  my 
horse. 

[Their  silhouettes  disappear.] 


(Eleventh  Transition) 

Amid  a  burst  of  far  cheering,  the  curtains  close,  part 
ing  again  half  way,  as  the  cheering  ebbs  and, 


[ACT  III          WASHINGTON  259 

rising  tumultuous  again,  merges  with  a  bell's 
deep  clanging. 

To  these  sounds,  The  Town  Crier  (QuiLLOQUON), 
with  his  lantern  pole,  is  glimpsed  in  passing  as 
before,  calling  with  long  cry  intoned. 

THE    TOWN    CRIER 

Cornwallis  is  taken! — Yorktown  is  fallen! — Corn- 
wallis  is  taken! 

[THE  CRIER  passes  off  in  the  night. 
The  clanging  of  the  bell  grows  fainter  and 
ceases.] 


FOURTEENTH  ACTION 
Part  1 

From  the  moment's  quiet  that  ensues,  comes  a  low 
murmur  of  Men's  Voices  as  in  conversation. 

In  another  pause,  small  pulsing  lights  are  seen  glow 
ing,  grouped  in  a  semi-circle.  The  lights  glow 
upward  from  the  bowls  of  long-stemmed  pipes, 
illumining  fitfully  the  faces  and  forms  of  Men 
in  Officers9  uniforms,  seated  in  a  group,  of  whom 
One  is  sitting  near  the  centre  of  their  shadowy 
half-circle. 


260  WASHINGTON  [ACT  III 

This  one  speaks  first,  the  others  in  their  turns  speak 
ing  quietly,  with  voices  of  subdued  emotion. 

THE    FIRST 

Gentlemen,  how  shall  we  proceed? 

ANOTHER 

I  move  Colonel  Nicola  be  our  spokesman. 

A   THIRD 

Second  the  motion. 

OTHERS 

[Scatteredly.] 
Amen! 

THE   FIRST 

[NICOLA] 

Fellow  officers,  I  am  at  your  service.  Being  but  a 
Colonel,  I  may  serve  the  better  as  your  errand-bearer. 
I  have  already  dispatched  our  joint  appeal  by  letter. 
I  will  wait  upon  him  in  person. 

A  FOURTH 

It  may  be  well,  Colonel,  for  you  to  urge  our  sev 
eral  feelings.  As  for  mine,  if  need  be,  I  will  gladly 
starve  for  my  country — but  not  for  Congress. 

A   FIFTH 

I  concur,  General.  Some  gentlemen  of  the  Con 
gress  have  short  memories.  They  forget  a  day  when 


ACT  III]  WASHINGTON  261 

they  bolted  bareback  from  the  Capital,  to  the  cat-calls 
of  the  enemy — an  enemy  whom  we,  not  they,  have 
beaten,  and  restored  those  honourable  gentlemen  to 
their  seats  at  the  Capital. 

A   SIXTH 

Yet  now  they  plan  to  disband  us — penniless,  bank 
rupt  :  no  provision  for  our  families,  no  reward  for  our 
soldiers:  us — the  army  that  wintered  at  Valley  Forge. 
Seven  years  we  have  served,  and  now — disband  us 
so,  by  God! 

THE    SECOND 

Friends,  we  are  not  yet  disbanded. 

SEVERAL 

No! 

THE   SECOND 

We  have  our  guns:  our  powder  and  shot  are  still 
dry. 

SEVERAL 

Yes — yes ! 

THE    SECOND 

Well,  then,  if  we  refuse  to  disband  until  we  secure 
justice — who  shall  compel  us  to  disband? — Congress? 

THE   SIXTH 

[Amid  sinister  murmurs.] 
Let  'em  try  it! 


262  WASHINGTON         ACT  III] 

NICOLA 

Gentlemen  of  the  army,  our  argument  goes  deeper 
than  that.  We  still  hold  the  power — true;  but  none 
of  us  wishes  to  abuse  it. 

THE   SIXTH 

How  abuse — ? 

NICOLA 

Pray,  General — one  moment.  Our  wrongs  are 
deep,  intolerable.  So,  then,  the  redress  of  our  wrongs 
must  go  as  deep — deep  to  the  roots  of  our  form  of 
government.  A  Republic — has  one  ever  been  tested? 
Rome  teaches  us  how.  Democracy — what  people  of 
the  earth  has  followed  that  dream  and  survived? 
Gentlemen,  let  us  be  wise  in  our  time.  There  is  but 
one  solution:  Monarchy — and  one  man  in  supreme 
command. 

[The  darkness  buzzes  with  low  mutterings. 

Then  a  pause  of  silence. 

The  glowing  pipe-bowls  pulse  quicker.} 

THE   SECOND 

[Very  quietly.] 

Aye,  Sir, — one  man.  There  is  only  one  in  Amer 
ica. 

THE    THIRD 

We  have  sent  him  our  letter.  He  is  probably  read 
ing  it  now. 


[ACT  III          WASHINGTON  263 

THE   SIXTH 

Rome,  you  said,  Colonel.  'Twill  be  easier  for  him 
than  for  Caesar.  We  offer  him  the  crown  in  his  tent 
— not  in  the  forum. 

THE    SECOND 

He'll  not  put  it  by — thrice. 

NICOLA 
[Rising.] 

Fellow  officers,  he  has  our  letter.  He  needs  no 
other  charger  to  hand  him  the  blazoned  crown. — 
Shall  I  go  for  our  answer? 

ALL 

[Rising.] 

Aye. 

NICOLA 

I'll  return  at  once  and  inform  you. 

[He  pauses; — his  voice  quivers.] 
Gentlemen — long  live  the  King! 

ALL 

[Echoing,  with  deep  murmur.] 
The  King! 

[NicoLA  goes. 

The  glowing  lights  pulse  no  longer. 

Through  'the  dark,  very  faintly,  the  strains  of 
a  violin  rise  and  die  away  on  the  melody  of 
"America,"  uncompleted.] 


264  WASHINGTON          [Acx  III 


Part  2 

And  now,  on  the  left,  a  single  candle  gleams  visible. 
Its  screened  light  is  thrown  only  on  the  light- 
stand  where  it  rests,  and  on  the  form  of  WASH 
INGTON,  seated  beside  it. 

From  a  case  he  takes  out  a  pair  of  spectacles  and  puts 
them  on. 

From  his  pocket  he  takes  a  letter,  opens  it  and  reads. 

While  he  does  so,  out  of  the  darkness  near  him,  there 
glows  dimly  upon  the  air  a  gleaming  Crown, 
glimpsed  with  the  misty  stars  and  colours  of  the 
American  flag. 

After  a  moment,  WASHINGTON  moves  the  letter  in  his 
right  hand  beyond  the  candle-light;  w'ith  his 
left  he  puts  off  his  spectacles,  closing  his  eyes. 

Raising  the  letter  with  a  silent  gesture,  he  crumples 
it  in  his  grasp — then  lets  it  fall. 

As  it  falls,  the  gleaming  phasma  of  the  Crown  and 
Colours  disappears,  and  the  voice  of  BILLY  the 
Negro  speaks  from  the  darkness,  right. 

BILLY 

Colonel  Nicola,  Marse  Ex'lency. 

[WASHINGTON  moves  slightly. 

Adjusting  the  shade  of  the  candle,  he  looks  up 
where  NICOLA  steps  into  its  light;  then  he  looks 
away  again.] 


ACT  III]          WASHINGTON  265 

NICOLA 

[After  a  pause.} 

A  letter  has  preceded  me,  General. — You  have  read 
it? 

WASHINGTON 

[Very  quietly — still  looking  off.} 
Yes. 

NICOLA 

[After  another  pause.} 
May  I  transmit  your  answer? 

WASHINGTON 

[Slowly,  looking  up  at  him — intense.} 
Yes. 

[Rising,  with  deliberation,  he  walks  silently 
back  and  forth  twice.     Pausing,  then,  he  points 
to  the  crumpled  letter  on  the  floor,  and  says — 
with  quiet.} 
There  it  is. 

NICOLA 

[Hesitates — then  picks   it  up.} 
Your  answer,  General? 

WASHINGTON 

Yes. 

[ NICOLA  moves  as  if  to  speak — but  stops — 
then  is  turning  away,  when  WASHINGTON  speaks 
again.} 
Wait! 


266  WASHINGTON          [ACT  III 

[He  takes  the  letter  from  NICOLA.] 
Perhaps  I  should  write  a  word  in  reply. 

[Going  to  the  light-stand,  he  searches  about 
for  a  moment,  finds  his  spectacles,  fumbles  to 
put  them  on,  but  pauses — turning  with  a  sad 
smile.} 

Nay,  Sir, — you  see!  Those  who  sent  you — tell 
them  this: — I  have  grown  both  blind  and  grey  in 
your  service.  I  am  your  old  friend.  The  wrongs 
you  suffer,  I  will  help  redress  them — but  not  with  in 
famy.  This  letter  is  sick  with  thoughts  abhorrent  to 
mankind.  No  pang  of  all  this  w<jr  has  ever  pained 
me  so  deep.  But  no  word  of  it  shall  pass  my  lips. 
Let  me  conjure  you,  then,  if  you  have  any  regard 
for  your  country,  concern  for  yourselves  or  posterity, 
or  respect  for  me — banish  these  thoughts  from  your 
minds — as  I  burn  them  now  from  my  sight. 

[Holding  the  letter  in  the  candle-flame,  he 
watches  it  burn  to  ashes. ] 

NICOLA 

[Saluting,  speaks  hoarsely.} 
I  will  take  your  answer,  General. 
[Turning,  he  goes  off. 

WASHINGTON  stands  a  moment — his  head  bent 
heavily,  his  shoulders  sagged  and  heaving. 

Then,  moving  slowly  to  the  chair,  he  sits,  with 
the  action  and  look  of  old  age.  Fingering  his 


ACT  III]  WASHINGTON  267 

spectacles,  he  stares  at  them — his  lips  whisper 
ing.     Then  he  calls,  low:] 

WASHINGTON 

Billy! 

[  BILLY  comes  from  the  shadow,  and  stands 
near.     WASHINGTON  looks  up  at  him — wistful.] 
Any  word  from  home? 

BILLY 

No,  Marse  Ex'lency. 

WASHINGTON 

[After  a  moment.] 

Billy — fetch  another  light.     My  candle  is  growing 
dim. 

[BiLLY  goes   out  with  the   candle.     In  the 
darkness,  there  is  silence.] 


(Twelfth  Transition) 

Now — far  away — deep,  choral  Voices  begin  to  sing; 
and  while  the  recurrent  words  of  their  negro 
melody  increase  in  nearness  to  the  ear,  the  fa 
miliar  outlines  of  its  former  Scene  recur  once 
more  to  the  eye. 


268  WASHINGTON          ACT  III] 

THE    CHORAL   VOICES 

Adam  and  Eba,  wipe  yo'  eyes, 

'T  ain't  no  good  fo'  ter  gaze  at  de  garden: 
Closed  is  de  do's  ob  Paradise; 

'T  ain't  no  good  fo'  ter  axe  no  pardon. 

Oh,  wharll  I  lay  my  heart  down? 
Oh,  wharll  I  lay  my  heart  down? 

Eden  home  is  far  away. — 
Oh,  nebber  mind! 
I'll  lay  my  heart  down 

Down  in  de  lap  ob  ol9  Virgin-ee-ay! 


FIFTEENTH  ACTION 

From  the  ceasing  refrain,  a  hubbub  of  gay  voices  now 
rises  in  talk  and  banter — voices  of  Negroes  call 
ing  "Merry  Christmas!"  through  the  colonnade 
and  kitchen  door  of  the  Mt.  Vernon  homestead, 
now  becoming  visible — its  small- paned  windows 
glowing  bright  from  lamps  within — while, 
through  the  arches,  the  flare  of  bon-fires  flickers. 

The  conversation  of  two  stooping  Figures — an  OLD 
MAN  and  an  OLD  WOMAN — sounds  clearest. 

THE  MAN 

Sho,  sho,  Mammy  Sal!  De  fust-off  singin'  ob 
Chris'mas  Ebe — I  reckon  dat  was  ol'  Eba  singin'  to 
her  chilluns  in  de  garden. 


[ACT  III         WASHINGTON  269 

THE   WOMAN 

Go  'long,  Zekiel,  you's  a-failin'  fas'.  Chris'mas 
Ebe,  dat  ain't  OF  Tes'ament  psalms:  dat's  Noo  Tes'a- 
ment  gospel. 

Chris'mas  Ebe — dat's  de  cow-shep'erds'  song- 
hymn,  w'en  de  Lo'd  he  come  fust  like  a  chil'  in  de  ol' 
folkses'  home,  an'  dey  done  tuck  'im  in  de  manger. 

ZEKIEL 

Mebbe  so,  Mammy.  Us  a-bof  we's  fas'  slidin' 
down-hill.  But  de  bon-fires  am  a-burnin' ;  an'  Merry 
Chris'mas  I  sings  all  de  same! 

MAMMY    SAL 

All  de  samer,  you  better  be  singin'! — An'  yere 
Marse  George  home  agin!  Marse  George  come  a- 
home  to  his  ol'  Bride  Missy — bof  togedder  once  mo' 
— safe  togedder  as  was  sunder' d — an'  de  little  gran'- 
chilluns  growin'  spicky-span  noo,  by  de  long-ago  chim- 
bley! 

[The  house  door  opens. 

From  within  come  the  sounds  of  fiddling  and 
laughter  and  the  sweet  voice  of  a  Woman,  who 
appears  in  the  doorway,  smiling  under  the  white 
cap  of  MARTHA  WASHINGTON,  as  she  speaks  to  a 
little  BOY  and  GIRL  on  the  threshold.] 

MARTHA 

All  right,  children — outdoors  with  you,  just  a  min 
ute. 


270    .  WASHINGTON  [Acr  III 

[Pinching  the  BOY'S  ear.] 

Then  back  in,  Sir,  quick — or  Jack  Frost  will  nip  his 
namesake. 

Here:  wait!  Your  Grandma  will  sniff  the  air,  too, 
and  bring  her  goodman  along. — George!  They  want 
to  see  the  bon-fires.  Come  out. 

[  Turning  to  the  looming  form  of  WASHINGTON 
behind  her,  she  takes  his  arm,  leaning  on  it  as 
she  comes  out  with  him  down  the  door-steps, 
preceded  by  the  two  Children,  who  run  ahead  of 
them,  looking  off  at  the  bon-fires. 

Where  they  pause,  the  shaft  of  light  through 
the  doorway  gleams  on  the  grey  locks  and  time- 
scarred  features  of  WASHINGTON,  as  he  looks 
down  at  MARTHA,  and  speaks — with  deep  breath 
of  gladness.] 

WASHINGTON 
Home,  Patsy! — home  and  peace! 

MARTHA 

Never  again — war. 

WASHINGTON 

Would  to  God  it  might  be  never,  and  that  plague  of 
mankind  banished  from  our  earth  for  always!  What 
grudgers  and  graspers  covet  the  world,  as  if  it  were 
not  room  enough  for  all  to  keep  house  in  happily! 


ACT  HI]  WASHINGTON  271 

MARTHA 

[Twitching  his  arm,  smiles  up  at  him.} 
Here's  one  housekeeper  happy. 

WASHINGTON 

[Smiling  back.] 
Nay, — two! 

MARTHA 

[Pointing  to  the  Children,  who  come  running 
toward  them.] 

And  a  fresh  start — all  round.     See!     Now  we  be 
gin  all  over  again. 

WASHINGTON 

[Greeting  the  Children.] 
Well,  brother  and  sister! 

[Taking  the  BOY'S  hand.] 
Another  young  Jack — for  his  dear  father,  dead! 

MARTHA 

[Fondling  the  GIRL.] 
And  here's  Nellie  Custis — for  little  Patsy,  long  ago. 

WASHINGTON 

Old  bark — new  branches! 

[To  the  BOY,  who  tugs  at  his  sword9  mur 
muring.'} 

Heigh,  Jack?     You  want  my  sword? — Here,  Patsy, 
unbuckle  what  Sergeant  Pat  buckled  on. 


272  WASHINGTON  [ ACT  III 

[MARTHA  ungirdles  his  sword,  which  they  both 
hand  to  the  BOY.] 

Take  it,  laddie:  but  hearkee!     Never  use  it — to 
show  off  to  your  sister! 

MARTHA 

[With  a  scurrying  gesture.] 
Run  in  quick,  to  the  fireplace! 

[Carrying  the  sword  with  its  girdle,  the  BOY 
runs  in  with  the  little  GIRL. 

From  the  kitchen  door,  MAMMY  SAL  has  come 
forward,  followed  farther  off  by  ZEKIEL. 
White-haired  and  stooped,  she  reaches  her  arms 
— trembling — to  WASHINGTON,  and  clutches  him 
silently. 

Turning  quickly,  WASHINGTON  caresses  the 
old  Woman's  shoulders  with  his  arm.] 

WASHINGTON 

You,  Mammy  Sal? — Merry  Christmas! 

MAMMY   SAL 

[Clutching  him  tighter.] 
Marse  George — Marse  George! 

[Releasing  him,  she  looks  in  his  face.] 
Ain't  no  mo'  fo'  ter  say:  jes'  on'y — Marse  George! 

[Sobbing  low,  she  turns  away  and  hobbles 
back  toward  the  kitchen,  met  on  the  way  by 


ACT  III]  WASHINGTON  273 

ZEKIEL,  to  whom  WASHINGTON  waves  a  hearty 
gesture.] 

WASHINGTON 

Howdy,  Zekiel! 

ZEKIEL 

Howdy,  Massa! 

[Taking  MAMMY  SAL  by  the  arm,  the  old 
Negro  leads  her  in  to  the  kitchen. 

Looking  after  them,  WASHINGTON  clutches  his 
hand,  biting  at  its  edge;  then,  turning,  he  speaks 
to  MARTHA.] 

WASHINGTON 

No  more,  Patsy — henceforward,  no  more  masters! 
There  must  be  only  free  people — under  these  stars! 
For  me  and  mine — I've  willed  it. 

[From  the  house  comes  a  shout  of  young 
Voices.] 

MARTHA 

They  are  calling  us,  George — the  children. 

WASHINGTON 

[His  brow  clearing.] 
We'll  join  them. 

[On  the  doorstep,  he  stops  beside  MARTHA — 
makes  a  wondering  gesture,  and  murmurs:] 


274  WASHINGTON  [Acx  III 

All  over  again!  Here,  on  this  doorstep — listen! 
Do  you  hear  that  sound? 

MARTHA 

Aye — neighbours  coming  to  welcome  you  home. 
Tis  sleigh-bells,  my  dear. 

WASHINGTON 

To  me — not  sleigh-bells,  my  dear.  Brother  Law 
rence,  he  heard  'em — long  ago.  To  me — 'tis  frogs, 
— frogs  piping. 

MARTHA 

[With  a  little  laugh.] 
On  Christmas  Eve — frogs  piping! 

WASHINGTON 

In  the  swamp.  [With  a  youthful  gusto.] — Ha! 
Now  we  can  get  back  on  the  real  job,  and  this  time 
we'll  finish  it.  This  time,  Pats, — we  will  drain  that 
swamp ! 

[To  a  fresh  burst  of  clear  Voices  and  the  notes 
of  a  Fiddler,  seen  within  through  the  doorway, 
they  go  in  to  the  house. 
The  door  closes.] 


(Thirteenth  Transition) 

The  fiddle  still  plays — the  tune  of  Bangry  Rewy. 
Now  it  seems  to  play  farther  off,  and  the  lighted  win- 


EPILOGUE]         WASHINGTON  275 

dows  grow  paler,  as  a  growing  brightness  out  of 
doors  increases  to  the  full  light  of  day,  passing 
to  the  colours  of  approaching  sunset. 
With  the  tune  of  his  song's  refrain,  the  Fiddler  (QuiL- 
LOQUON)  peers  through  the  colonnade,  from  the 
right  background.  There,  followed  by  the  peep 
ing  Children,  he  comes  out  and  stops  playing,  as 
they  sit  together,  shadowed,  in  the  foreground. 


EPILOGUE 
SIXTEENTH  ACTION 

(Recession) 

As  the  notes  of  the  fiddle  stop,  there  sounds — from 
beyond  the  colonnade — the  music  of  a  band 
playing  in  medley  the  national  airs  of  the  Al 
lies,  while  along  the  path,  left,  now  enter,  walk 
ing  slowly,  two  Civilians1  in  modern  garb.  , 

Pensively  they  speak  to  each  other,  as  the  music 
sounds  ever  nearer. 

ONE 
They  are  coming  from  the  tomb. 

THE    OTHER 

No,  from  the  temple. 

1The  Fourth  Civilian  and  Second  Civilian  of  the  Pro 
logue. 


276  WASHINGTON        [EPILOGUE 

THE    FIRST 

All  the  allies  of  freedom  sent  their  tributes. 

THE   SECOND 

George  of  England  sent  England's  laurel. 

THE    FIRST 

Did  you  see  young  LaFayette?  A  kinsman,  they 
say. 

THE    SECOND 

A  great-grandson. — We  live  dreams.  Freedom's 
ancestors  do  not  die.  They  unite  with  posterity — 'to 
form  a  more  perfect  union.' 

THE   FIRST 

Our  Alliance! 

THE   SECOND 

More  than  that:  Liberty  organic:  our  Declaration 
of  Interdependence — our  World-League.  Listen — 
that  music! 

THE    FIRST 

Time  is  mingling  our  national  airs  today. 

THE    SECOND 

Time  does  more  at  Mt.  Vernon.  We  shall  hear  it 
— tomorrow. 

THE    FIRST 

Hear  what? 


EPILOGUE]         WASHINGTON  277 

THE    SECOND 

One  choral  song  for  all. 

THE    FIRST 

The  old  Marseillaise? 

THE    SECOND 

A  new  one:  the  will-song  of  a  world:  the  will  that 
wrought  through  him,  who  still  leads  us  on. 

THE    FIRST 

The  man  who  made  us. — Tell  me;  you're  an  artist: 
that  will — shall  we  see  it,  too, — made  visible — a  face 
behind  the  folk-song? 

THE    SECOND 

Who  can  tell?  Millions  die  for  it — but  still  its 
face  is  cowled  from  us. 

[Through  the  colonnade,  to  the  medley  of 
their  national  airs,  flags  of  the  Allied  Nations 
begin  to  be  visible. 

Watching,  the  two  draw  back  on  the  left,  where 
they  disappear. 

Through  the  arches,  the  sky  in  the  background 
glows  now  with  the  sunset's  red,  deepening  in 
intensity  with  the  martial  music,  which  heralds 
from  outside  the  unfurled  colours  of  the  flags 
as  they  enter. 

These,  as  they  mass  with  their  bearers,  leave 


278  WASHINGTON        [EPILOGUE 

still  vacant  the  central  archivay,  on  either  side  of 
which,  the  American,  the  British  (on  the  right), 
the  French,  the  Italian  (on  the  left), — these, 
grouped  with  the  Belgian,  the  Serbian,  Polish, 
Greek,  Portuguese,  the  Chinese  Republic,  Japa 
nese,  Brazilian,  Cuban,  and  the  other  banners  of 
the  Allies, — blazon  in  massed  splendour  the 
curve  of  the  colonnade. 

Now  the  airs  in  medley  cease,  with  one  moment 
of  silence. 

The  central  arch  fills  with  a  clear  wine  of  crim 
son. 

And  now,  to  fiery  burst  of  the  Marseillaise, 
the  wine-light  clouds  with  gules  of  a  RED-ROBED 
FORM — a  vast,  majestic  PRESENCE,  its  face  hid 
den  in  deep  Cowl — burning  at  the  centre  of  the 
many -dyed  banners  of  the  nations. 

Across  this  glowing  pageant,  the  blue  curtains 
sweep  and  close — while,  abruptly,  the  flaring 
music  ceases. 


[Finale] 

Outside — in  the  shock  of  silence — seated 
where  the  curtains  conjoin,  QUILLOQUON  lifts  his 
dulcimer  and  smiles  at  the  CHILDREN  beside  him. 

Very  quietly,  he  begins  to  play  and  sing  to  his 
lulling  accompaniment.] 


EPII  OGUE]         WASHINGTON  279 

QUILLOQUON 

There  was  a  little  ship  in  the  North  Amerikee, 

She  went  by  the  name  of  the  Golden  Libertee, 

As  she  sailed  in  the  Low-de-lands  low. — 

[From  above,  the  outer  curtain — slowly  fall 
ing — begins  to  shut  off  the  three  FIGURES.] 

The  red,  red  hearts  were  burning  her  golden  decks 

aboard, 

Her  Captain  he  was  standing  where  cloudy  eagles 
soared — 

The  Curtain  Has  Fallen 
FINIS 


APPENDIX 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

COMMENTS  ON  THE  PLAY,  CONCERNING 

Historical  References     .      .  .  .      .   '  .     .     .  .  283 

The  Theme   .     ...     .   \  .  .     ...     .    >  .  284 

The  Ballads        .      .     *    ,.  .  .     .     .     .     .  .285 

The  "Ballad-Play"  Structure 

The  Two  Versions     .      .  . 287 

The  Transitions   .:   '  -. r  <  "1-  *•  .     ....  .  290 

Acknowledgments     .      i     .  .  .      .      .<     ,      .  .  291 

TITLE  PAGE,  UNABRIDGED       .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .  292 

ACTIONS  AND  TRANSITIONS  WITH  SCENES  AND  CHAR 
ACTERS  .     .     .     ....     .     .     .     .     .  293 

ACTING  ROLES  .     .     .     ....     •     ...     .     .  305 

LIST  OF  PROPERTIES  .  .  .,  >  .  .  •"  .  .  .  309 
"THE  AMERICAN  PATRIOT'S  PRAYER,"  by  Thomas  Paine  312 
"ARIVEDERCI"  ,  ........  313 


282 


COMMENTS  ON  THE  PLAY 

CONCERNING 

HISTORICAL  REFERENCES 

If  he  has  read  the  Prelude  of  this  play,  the  proverbial 
Gentle  Reader  will  hardly  expect  an  exhaustive  bibliog 
raphy  in  the  Appendix.  I  shall,  at  least,  feel  free  to  com 
pile  none. 

It  is  enough  perhaps  to  say  here  that,  though  it  has  not 
at  all  been  my  aim  to  write  an  historical  or  "costume"  play 
in  the  usual  sense,  I  have  naturally  immersed  myself  in  my 
subject  in  order  to  express  it;  and  in  doing  so,  I  have  never 
consciously  ignored  the  "facts"  of  history,  but  I  have  no 
where  used  them  for  their  own  sakes  merely.  A  few  minor 
inconsistencies  of  time  and  place  (needful  to  dramatic 
epitomizing)  will  be  obvious  to  the  informed  who  may  look 
for  them. 

In  the  dialogue  I  have  used  in  rare  instances  the  actual 
words  of  Washington  and  other  persons  of  history,  but 
these  are  not  indicated  in  the  text.  Longer  selections  from 
original  sources,  however,  are  indicated  by  'single  quotation 
marks,'  which  throughout  the  book  always  indicate  ex 
cerpts  from  historical  documents. 

Of  such  are  the  excerpts  from  "The  First  Book  of  the 
American  Chronicles  of  the  Times"  *  (a  document  of  1774- 
'75,  written,  perhaps,  by  Francis  Hopkinson)  in  the  Sixth 
Action ;  from  Tom  Paine's  "The  Crisis"  2  and  "Common- 

1  See   "The    Literary   History   of   the   American   Revolution,"   by 
Moses  Coit  Tyler   (Putnam's.  1898),  Volume  I,  pages  257-265,  175, 
252:  a  work  unique  and  admirable. 

2  See  "The  Life  of  Thomas  Paine,"  by  Moncure  D.  Conway,  page  86. 

283 


284  APPENDIX 

sense"  in  the  Ninth  Action;  from  Philip  Frenau's  "Crispin 
O'Connor's  Answer"1  ('They  taxed  my  sun,'  etc.)  in  the 
Sixth  Action;  and  from  "The  St.  James  Chronicle"1  ('O 
Boston  wives  and  maids,'  etc.)  in  the  Sixth  Action. 

To  those  Actions  of  my  play  which  treat  of  Mt.  Vernon, 
one  book  has  contributed  so  much  of  appealing  suggestion 
that  I  wish  every  reader  of  this  might  be  led  to  its  graciously 
engaging  pages.  Paul  Wilstach's  "Mt.  Vernon"  (Double- 
day  Page,  1916)  is  the  book — an  endearing  story  of  the 
most  endeared  homestead  in  the  world. 

THE  THEME 

A  hundred  varied  plays  are  potential  in  the  great  theme 
of  Washington,  yet  strangely  this  play,  so  far  as  I  know, 
is  the  first  one  2  written  for  professional  production,  which 
aims  to  portray  Washington  himself  as  its  chief  central 
character. 

Today,  Washington — dead — is  for  most  people  a  figure 
remote,  statuesque,  dignified,  cold,  almost  mythical;  one 
to  be  revered,  but  not  warmly  loved.  But  in  his  own  day 
— alive — he  was  a  magnetic  human  being,  passionate,  pa 
tient,  resourceful — a  rugged  personality,  lovable  and 
greatly  beloved. 

It  has  been,  then,  my  aim  so  to  portray  him  in  his  strong 
prime,  with  truth  to  reality,  that  we  of  today  (and  especially 
our  young  men  of  America,  fighting  today  for  what  he 
fought  for)  may  be  led  to  feel  a  more  intimate  affection  for 
"the  man  who  made  us,"  and  for  the  still  contemporary 
cause  which  he  espoused  for  mankind. 

1  See  Volume  by  Tyler,  pages  mentioned  in  Footnote  on  Page  283. 

2  Since  the  announcement  of  the  production  of  this  play  by  Arthur 
Hopkins,  my  friend  Augustus  Thomas  has  told  me  that  an  early  play 
of  his,  entitled  "Col.  George  of  Mt.  Vernon,"  was  performed  for  a 
week  at  the  Castle  Square  Theatre,  Boston. 


APPENDIX  285 

THE  BALLADS 

For  the  ballads  in  this  play  I  am  highly  indebted  to  the 
suggestiveness  inherent  in  a  recent,  important  volume, 
"English  Folk  Songs  of  the  Southern  Appalachians"  by 
Cecil  Sharp  and  Olive  Dame  Campbell,  published  by  Put 
nam's,  New  York. 

To  Mr.  Sharp's  masterly  work  as  a  scholar  in  folk-song 
and  folk-dance  the  art  of  the  theatre  has  before  now  been 
debtor.  In  the  book  just  mentioned,  he  has  personally 
collected,  from  natives  of  our  southern  mountains,  an  as 
tonishing  wealth  of  ballad  material. 

To  American  men  of  letters  it  comes  as  an  inspiring  dis 
covery,  and  offers  a  creative  potentiality  today  such  as  the 
first  publication  of  Percy's  Reliques  must  have  presented  to 
English  poets  and  writers  of  an  earlier  century. 

Similarly,  I  think  Mr.  Sharp  may  feel  the  satisfaction 
that  his  great  and  painstaking  labours  hold  promise  of  a 
fertile  and  varied  reworking  in  creative  American  litera 
ture  for  years  to  come. 

In  writing  the  ballads  here  presented  I  have  allowed  my 
self  the  same  liberty  which  Robert  Burns  and  other  ballad- 
writers  of  other  times  have  permitted  themselves — the 
liberty  of  writing  new  words  to  old  folk-tunes  and  old  re 
frains,  in  the  spirit  of  these. 

Of  the  play's  ballads  nearly  all  are  written  to  be  sung  to 
the  traditional  tunes  of  the  Appalachian  Mountains  as  col 
lected  in  the  volume  mentioned;  one  only  ("The  Raggle- 
Taggle  Gypsies"1)  is  verbatim  an  old  English  ballad — one 
recently  made  familiar  to  Americans  by  the  unrivalled  sim 
plicity  and  charm  of  the  Fuller  Sisters'  singing. 

"Gypsy  Davy  came  over  the  sea"  2  is  the  first  line  of  a  dik 

1  See  the  Fuller  Sisters'  broadsides,  H.  W.  Gray  Co.,  New  York. 

2  The  first  stanza  and  refrain  of  the  version  of  this  ballad  as  given 


286  APPENDIX 

ferent  but  related  ballad  which  I  first  heard  sung  by  a  New 
Hampshire  native  and  neighbour  at  Cornish,  N.  H.,  Mr.  H.  B. 
Jordan,  whose  memory  is  rich  with  speech  and  lore  racy  of 
our  Yankee  soil. 

The  first  lines  of  the  Appalachian  ballads,  for  the  tunes 
of  which  my  own  ballads  have  been  written,  are  indicated  in 
parentheses,  as  follows:1 

"  There  was  a  little  ship  in  the  North  Amerikee"  (same 
first  line:  page  143,  B) ;  "Bangry  Rewy  acourting  did  ride" 
(same  first  line:  page  28,  A) ;  "There  was  a  young  fellow 
who  followed  the  plough"  ("There  was  an  old  man  who 
followed  the  plough:"  page  139,  A) ;  "There  were  some 
boys  on  Bunker's  hill"  ("There  is  a  wild  boar  in  this 
wood:"  page  28,  B) ;  "A  fighter  would  a-fiddling  go"  ("A 
keeper  would  a-hunting  go."  2) 

"She  leaned  herself  against  a  thorn"  (same  first  line: 
page  31,  E);  "Oh!  I've  lost  my  heart  to  Betsy"  ("Oh! 
There  came  a  Duke  a-riding."  2). 

The  Chorus  of  the  Liberty  Boys,  in  the  Sixth  Action,  is 
based  on  an  American  song  of  the  Revolution  3  for  which 
no  music  of  that  time  has  been  found  in  the  archives. 

me  by  Mr.  Jordan  (the  music  to  which  will  shortly  be  published  with 
that  of  the  other  ballads  in  this  play)  are  as  follows: 

"Gypsy  Davy  came  over  the  sea, 

The  song  he  san^  so  boldly, — 
A-sitting  under  the  green  wood  tree 

A-charming  the  heart  of  my-lady." 

/ 
"Reattle-attle,  dingo-dingo-dingo, 

Reattle-attle,  dingo-daisy! 
A-sitting  under  the  green  wood  tree, 

A-charming  the  heart  of  my-lady." 

1  The  page  references  in  parentheses  are  to  Sharp  and  Campbell's 
"English  Folk  Songs  of  the  Southern  Appalachians,"  Putnams,  1917. 

2  See  the  Fuller  Sisters'  broadsides,  H.  W.  Gray  Co.,  New  York. 

3  "  A  New  Song  to  an  Old  Tune,"  written  1775,  between  the  dates 
of  Lexington  and  Bunker  Hill:     See  Tyler's  "Literary  History  of  the 
American  Revolution,"  Vol.  I,  page  257. 


APPENDIX  287 

Of  "Adam  and  Eba,"  the  choral  song  of  the  negroes  in 
the  Fourth  Transition, — the  words  and  melody  are  the  au 
thor's.  "I  know  my  robe,"  etc.,  chanted  by  Mammy  Sal, 
in  the  Third  Action,  is  an  old  familiar  Negro  hymn. 

Numerous  versions  of  the  words  of  "Yankee  Doodle"  are 
traditional,  and,  of  these,  two  in  part  are  used  in  the  Eighth 
Action.  Originally  a  country -dance  song,  it  is  here  (per 
haps  for  the  first  time)  revived  in  its  original  use,  to  the  ac 
companiment  of  country-dancing. 

THE  "BALLAD-PLAY"  STRUCTURE 
THE  Two  VERSIONS 

So  much,  then,  for  the  ballads  of  my  play:  but  why  a 
"ballad-play"?  This  is,  I  think,  the  first  by  that  name, 
and  being  also  probably  the  first  in  its  kind,  that  special 
designation  may  have  its  usefulness. 

In  the  Preface  I  have  mentioned  two  versions  of  the 
play:  its  Theatre  Version  as  it  will  be  produced  this  season, 
in  our  present-day  theatre,  with  abbreviated  text,  and  what 
I  may  call  its  Festival  Version — as  here  published,  un 
abridged,  in  book  form. 

Every  working  dramatist  and  producer  knows  his  "version 
with  cuts" — usually  the  result  of  strenuous  rehearsals  in 
the  theatre,  before  the  first  night  and  during  some  days 
after.  His  original  longer  version  may  perhaps  be  pub 
lished  for  so-called  "literary"  reasons,  but  has  otherwise 
no  further  raison  d'etre  or  definite  practical  usefulness. 

The  present  text  of  "Washington"  is  not  such  a  longer 
version,  nor  is  its  text  as  produced  this  season  such  a  "ver 
sion  with  cuts." 

From  its  inception,  I  have  had  always  in  mind  its  two 
definite  versions — one  (the  briefer),  designed  to  be  prac- 


288  APPENDIX 

tical  for  well  known  conditions  of  our  theatre  today,  one 
(the  longer)  designed  to  be  practical  for  less  well  known 
conditions  of  our  theatre  tomorrow ---the  distinct  signs  and 
characteristics  of  which  have  been  steadily  borne  in  upon 
my  own  experience  during  the  last  seven  or  eight  years  of 
experiment  and  demonstration  in  the  field  of  community 
drama. 

Both  versions,  howevei,  could  hardly  have  been  struc 
turally  fused  from  the  start,  were  it  not  for  the  auspicious 
fact  that  already  our  commercial  theatre  of  today  is  ready 
for  the  beginnings  of  a  new-theatre  technique  within  its  own 
walls,  through  the  work  of  a  few  pioneering  artists  evolved 
there.  Without  the  discovering  vision  of  Gordon  Craig,  this 
new  art — born  of  the  theatre — -might  not  yet  have  been  re- 
leased  for  the  world,  without  Robert  Edmond  Jones  and  a 
very  few  others,  it  would  not  now  be  instrumental  for  Amer 
ica.  In  inventing,  therefore,  a  certain  structure  for  this 
play,  I  have,  I  think,  been  enabled — by  an  art  evolved  and 
still  evolving — to  design  definitely  for  both  today  and  to 
morrow. 

To  treat  specifically  the  many  aspects  of  this  great  oppor 
tunity  would  require  a  lengthy  essay,  here  out  of  place. 
But,  since  critical  interpreters  are  habitually  more  slow 
than  creative  workers  to  detect  and  illuminate  things  very 
important  potentially,  it  may  be  useful  for  me  to  touch 
upon  my  meaning  as  regards  this  play,  briefly,  in  two  or 
three  aspects  of  it. 

The  basic  requirement  of  the  community  theatre  is  ex 
pression — expression  varied  to  its  maximum  to  include  ex- 
pressional  opportunity  for  the  largest  number  of  individual 
participants  practicable. 

The  basic  requirement  of  the  commercial  theatre  is  just 
the  opposite — expression  concentrated  to  its  minimum*  to 
include  only  the  kind  of  expressional  opportunity,  within 


APPENDIX  289 

range  of  the  fewest  needful  actors,  and  proportioned  to 
their  salaries  for  competence  or  reputation. 

To  solve  these  diametrically  opposed  requirements  be 
comes,  then,  the  problem  and  function  of  a  dramatist  who 
seeks  to  bring  the  practical  beginnings  of  community  (or 
"festival"  1)  drama  and  theatre  into  being,  under  present- 
day  conditions  of  the  commercial  theatre  itself. 

For  community  necessities,  his  play  should  have  the 
maximum  number  of  characters,  with  maximum  opportunity 
for  expression;  for  commercial  necessities — the  minimum 
of  these. 

Having  both  these  kinds  of  necessity  as  objects,  my  play 
"Washington"  has — for  festival  theatre  purposes — a  maxi 
mum  number  and  variety  of  acting  roles  for  community 
participants  within  its  necessary  time-scope;  while — for 
commercial  theatre  purposes — it  arranges  the  distribution 
of  these  roles  so  that  they  may  be  enacted  by  the  minimum 
number  of  professional  actors. 

Thus  a  total  of  one  hundred  speaking  characters  (actable 
by  one  hundred  community  participants)  may  be  acted  by  a 
company  of  twenty-nine  professionals,  inclusive  of  two  chil 
dren,  who  do  not  speak.  (Reference  to  the  accompanying 
lists  of  Characters  and  Acting  Roles — Individuals  and 
"Doubles" — will  make  this  specifically  clearer.) 

This  implies,  of  course,  on  the  part  of  acting  profession 
als,  an  artistic  desire  (not  too  wide-spread  in  the  profession 
at  present)  for  variety  of  opportunity  in  their  acting,  be 
cause  of  necessity  most  of  them  must  "double,"  and  some  of 
them  several  times,  during  one  night's  performance;  but  the 
number  of  such  artist  professionals  is  larger,  I  think,  than 
generally  supposed,  and  for  such  artists,  a  structure  like  this 
of  "Washington"  presents  to  the  smaller-part  actor  an  even- 

1  The  Greek,  as  all  ancient  drama,  was  the  "festival"  drama  of  com 
munities. 


290  APPENDIX 

ing's  repertory  of  parts  more  comprehensive  of  his  talents 
than  any  of  the  single  big-part  actors  (save  perhaps  one  or 
two)  possesses. 

But  there  is  another  needful  function  which  the  structure 
of  such  a  play  must  perform  for  festival  purposes.  Those 
purposes  are  best  served  in  communities  by  assigning  struc 
tural  portions  of  the  testival  unit  to  separate  groups — groups 
often  located  necessarily  in  places  distant  from  one  another 
— for  this  assignment  greatly  facilitates  not  only  the  prac 
ticability  and  expertness  of  local  rehearsals,  bat  also  the 
social  entente  of  neighbourhood.team  work,  which  is  a  fun 
damental  community  object.  It  vastly  enhances,  moreover, 
the  organic-  beauty  of  the  ensemble  festival,  which  is  the 
harmony  of  its  parts. 

With  this  function  in  view,  then,  "Washington"  comprises 
(besides  its  fourteen  Transitions)  sixteen  Actions,  twelve  at 
least  of  which  are  separate  dramatic  entities,  capable  of 
separate  rehearsal  and  performance,  while  remaining  har 
moniously  related  to  the  structural  whole  in  festival  produc 
tion. 

For  purposes  of  the  commercial  theatre,  however,  this 
total  structure  has*  not  to  be  weakened  by  "cuts"  in  the  or 
ganic  parts.  Abridgment  is,  of  course,  needful,  but — by 
conceiving  the  two  distinct  requirements  clearly — the  solu 
tion  of  both  may  be  wrought  out  from  the  start.  That,  at 
least,  has  seemed  to  me  the  only  craftsmanly  way  of  tackling 
the  job  to  be  done. 

THE  TRANSITIONS 

The  above  mentioned  solution,  in  the  case  of  "Washing 
ton,"  is  brought  nearer  by  the  functional  device  of  the 
Transitions,  whereby  an  on-flowing  continuity  and  variety  of 
action  (with  no  heavy  sets  of  the  old  regime  to  impede  it) 
enables  the  dramatist  (like  the  sculptor)  to  project  a  mani- 


APPENDIX  291 

fold  frieze  of  figures  structurally  related,  and  leads  to  a 
large  new  freedom  in  his  art,  akin  to  that  of  the  Elizabethan 
•technique,  but  (thanks  to  our  modern  art  of  lighting) 
without  the  starkness  of  that. 

Into  these  Transitions,  Quilloquon — the  singer  and 
dancer  of  ballads — introduces  an  opportunity  in  the  new, 
growing  movement  of  our  native  poetry,  filled  with  fresh 
avenues  as  yet  hardly  trod  or  explored.  In  a  single  play, 
these  fresh  paths  can  only  be  hinted;  but  whether  by  that 
name  or  not,  this  first  experiment  in  the  "ballad-play"  is 
sure,  I  think,  to  be  followed  up  and  perfected  by  the  many 
young  minds  whose  rich  promise  is  expressing  itself  in 
American  poetry  and  dance  and  music  today.  To  them, 
and  to  the  great  people  from  whom  they  are  steadily  emerg 
ing — far  more  than  to  literary  recorders — I  submit  what  is 
creatively  potential  in  this  first  attempt. 

They  also  may  see  in  this  play  the  beginnings  of  an  art 
which,  not  excluding  the  nuances  of  rhythmic  sound,  is  re 
lated  through  light  to  unexplored  uses  of  the  motion  pic 
ture;  and  they  may  also  detect  the  suggestion  of  new  func 
tions  in  dramatic  art  for  what  I  may  term  a  motivated 
vaudeville  form. 

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

To  Dr.  Allan  McLane  Hamilton  (grandson  of  Alexander 
Hamilton)  of  Great  Barrington,  Mass.;  H.  Barrett  Learned, 
of  Washington,  D.  C.;  C.  K.  Bolton,  of  the  Boston  Athe- 
neum;  Frank  H.  Chase,  of  the  Boston  Public  Library;  and 
to  Katharine  and  Helen  Sumner,  of  Washington — I  am 
indebted  for  various  kind  offices  helpful  to  the  writing  of 
this  play. 


292  APPENDIX 

WASHINGTON 
THE  MAN  WHO  MADE  Us 

A  BALLAD-PLAY 

in  a 

PROLOGUE,   THREE  ACTS,  AND  EPILOGUE 
Comprising 

SIXTEEN  ACTIONS  AND  FOURTEEN  TRANSITIONS 
as  follows: 

Prologue:    ACTION  1  (Prelude)          ./7 

ACTION  2  (Induction) 
ACT  I.:      ACTIONS  3  TO  5  (incl.) 

Transitions  1  to  4 
ACT  II.:     ACTIONS  6  TO  9 

Transitions  5  to  7 
ACT  III.:    ACTIONS  10  TO  15 

Transitions  8  to  13 
Epilogue:    ACTION  16  (Recession) 

Transition  14  (Finale) 


APPENDIX  293 


THE  ACTIONS  AND  TRANSITIONS 

Comprise  the  following 
SCENES  AND  CHARACTERS 

with 

Place  and  Time 
in  the  order  of  their  sequence: 

(Note:  The  numbers  and  letters,  which  stand  before  the 
names  below,  indicate  the  Acting  Roles,  which  are  listed  on 
Pages  305-308.) 

Prologue.—  FIRST  ACTION 

(Prelude) 

SCENE:     In  the  Playhouse — before  and  behind 
the  Curtains. 

PLACE  AND  TIME  :    Of  the  Performance. 
CHARACTERS:     10  men. — *  Total:  10  men. 

a.  A  LITTLE  BOY    \ 

b.  A  LITTLE  GIRL  f iV 
1.  QUILLOQUON 

(E)  THE  COMIC  MASK 

(F)  THE  TRAGIC  MASK 
A.  THE  THEATRE 

c.  THE  PRESENCE  (Mute) 

THE  INHIBITORS  (Seven  of  whom  speak) 

1  In  the  totals  given,  Quilloquon,  the  Two  Children,  the  Presence, 
and  Washington  are  not  included 


294  APPENDIX 

C.  The  Seventh  Inhibitor 

E.  "  Sixth 

F.  "  Fifth 

G.  "  Fourth 
H.  "  Third 
I.  "  Second 
J.  "  First 

FIRST  TRANSITION 

Ballad:     "The  Golden  Libertee" 
Quilloquon — sings,  to  dulcimer 
Children — mute 

SECOND  ACTION 

(Induction) 

SCENE:     Exterior:  House,  Colonnade  and  Kit 
chen  of  Washington's  Mansion. 
PLACE   AND   TIME:     Mt.    Vernon,   Virginia,   at 

about  the  Present  Time. 
CHARACTERS:     8   men,   2   women. — Total:    18 

men,  2  women. 
1.   (Quilloquon) 
a,  b.   (The  Two  Children) 
G.  A  SOLDIER  IN  KHAKI 
F.  FIRST  CIVILIAN 

D.  SECOND  CIVILIAN 
C.  THIRD  CIVILIAN 

H.  A  SOLDIER  IN  LIGHT-BLUE 
B.  FOURTH  CIVILIAN 
I.  AN  ITALIAN  OFFICER 
J.  A  BRITISH  OFFICER 
(9)  AN  ELDERLY  WOMAN 
(10)  A  YOUNGER  WOMAN 


APPENDIX  295 

SECOND  TRANSITION 

Melody:     "America" 
Quilloquon — plays  fiddle 
Children — mute 

Act.  I.  THIRD  ACTION 

SCENE:     The  Same. 

TIME:  about  1750. 

CHARACTERS:     4   men,    2    women. — Total: 

men,  4  women. 
1.   (Quilloquon) 
a,  b.   (The  Two  Children) 
5.  LORD  FAIRFAX 

1.  LAWRENCE  WASHINGTON 
11.  MAMMY  SAL 

J.  JACOB  VAN  BRAMM 
C.  ADJUTANT  MUSE 
9.  MARY  WASHINGTON 

2.  GEORGE  WASHINGTON 

THIRD  TRANSITION 

Piping  of  Frogs 
Quilloquon — plays  flute 

Ballad:  "Bangry  Rewy" 
Quilloquon — sings,  to  fifing 

FOURTH  ACTION 

SCENE:     The  Same. 

TIME:  about  1756. 

CHARACTERS:  6  men,  3  women. — Total:  28  men, 

7  women. 
1.   (Quilloquon) 


296  APPENDIX 

12.  SALLY  FAIRFAX 

13.  ANN  SPEARING 

14.  ELIZABETH  DENT 

F.  BISHOP 

D.  HUMPHREY  KNIGHT 
B.  WILLIAM  POOLE 

Negroes  (Mute) 

E.  CAPT.  JOHN  POSEY 

2.  COL.  GEORGE  WASHINGTON 
8.  ZEKIEL 

G.  A  COLONIAL  OFFICER 

FOURTH  TRANSITION 

Melody:     "Bangry  Rewy" 
Quilloquon — plays  fiddle 

Plantation  Song:    "Oh,  whar'll  I  lay  my  heart  down?" 
Voices  of  Negroes — sing,  to  thrumming 

FIFTH  ACTION 

SCENE:     The  Same. 
TIME:     May,  1759. 

CHARACTERS:     3    men,    2    women. —  Total   31 
men,  9  women.    Recurrent:  2  men, 
1  womaa. 
11.  MAMMY  SAL 
8.  ZEKIEL 

Wedding  Guests 
E.  CAPT.  JOHN  POSEY 
10.  MARTHA  WASHINGTON 
2.  COL.  GEORGE  WASHINGTON 
b.   (Patty  Custis) 

a.   (Jack  Custis)     The  Two  Children 
1.   (A  Fiddler) — Quilloquon 


APPENDIX  297 

SIXTH  ACTION 

Act  II.        SCENE:     Exterior — Before     the     Doorway     of 

King's  College:  Night 
PLACE  AND  TIME  :    New  York.  1775. 
CHARACTERS:  13  men. — Total  44  men,  9  women. 
Liberty  Boys  who  sing  and  shout 
Voices  (Ten  speak) 
1.  A  Hawker  of  Ballads — Quilloquon 
D.  LEADER  OF  THE  CROWD 

1.  MYLES  COOPER 

3.  ALEXANDER  HAMILTON 

FIFTH  TRANSITION 

Ballad:     "Bands  and  Rebels" 
Quilloquon  (Ballad -Hawker) — sings  and  dances 
Children — dance,  with  him 

SEVENTH  ACTION 

SCENE:     Same  as  Act  I:  day. 
PLACE  AND  TIME:     Mt.  Vernon,  1775. 
CHARACTERS:     4   men,    2    women. — Total:    48 

men,  11  women.    Recurrent:  1  man, 

1  woman. 

2.  COL.  WASHINGTON 

10.  MARTHA  WASHINGTON 

11.  MAMMY  SAL 
G.  JACK  CUSTIS 

7.  BILLY 

H.  PATRICK  HENRY 
5.  LORD  FAIRFAX 
1.   (Fifer — Quilloquon) 


298  APPENDIX 

a.  (Drummer — The  Boy] 

b.  (Fiddler— The  Girl) 

SIXTH  TRANSITION 

Tune:     "Bands  and  Rebels" 
Quilloquon  ( Fif er )  — fifes 
The  Boy — drums 
The  Girl— fiddles 

Ballad:     "Bunker's  Hill" 
Quilloquon — sings 
Children — mute 

Tune:     "Yankee  Doodle" 
Quilloquon — fiddles 
The  Boy — drums 
The  Girl— fifes 

EIGHTH  ACTION 

SCENE:     Exterior:     Between  Massachusetts  and 

Harvard  Halls:  day. 
PLACE  AND  TIME:     Cambridge,  late  summer  of 

1775. 
CHARACTERS:     15  men. —  Total:   63   men,   11 

women.     Recurrent:  1  man. 
Soldiers 
Students 
Girls 
1.   (Yankee  Doodle — Quilloquon) 

a.  (Hobby-Lion — the  Boy) 

b.  (Hobby-Unicorn — the  Girl) 
L  CHAPLAIN  EMERSON 

3  Students 
2  Soldiers 
6.  COL.  HENRY  KNOX 


APPENDIX  299 

Marblehead  "Johnnies"  (4  of  whom  speak) 

Virginian  "Jinnies" 
C.  LEADER  OF  "JINNIES" 
F.  LEADER  OF  "JOHNNIES" 
2.  GENERAL  WASHINGTON 
7.  BILLY 
J.  SELECTMAN 

Two  other  Selectmen 
1.   (Grindstone-Man — Quilloquon) 

a,  b.   (Two   Children,   bearing  axes — the  Boy  and  the 
Girl) 


SEVENTH  TRANSITION 
Part  1. 

Ballad:     "Axes  to  Grind" 

Quilloquon  (Grindstone  man) — sings,  and  treadles 
Children — Mute 

Part  2. 
Church-bell  and  chimes 

Rhythmic  Voices — chant  beginning  of  Declaration  of  In 
dependence 
Quilloquon  (Town  Crier) — intones  and  speaks 

Part  3 

Tune:     "Raggle-Taggle  Gypsies" 
Quilloquon  ( unseen )  — riddles 

Ballad:    "Raggle-Taggle  Gypsies" 
Quilloquon  (Gypsy  and  Lord) — sings,  and  mimes 
Children  (Gypsies,  Servant  and  Lady) — sing,  and  mime 
A  Man's  Voice — sings,  and  speaks. 


300  APPENDIX 

NINTH  ACTION 

SCENE:  Exterior — An  opening  amid  snow-laden 
woods:  gusty  moonlight. 

PLACE  AND  TIME:  By  the  Delaware  River,  above 
Trenton:  Christmas  night,  1776. 

CHARACTERS:  3  men.  Total:  66  men,  11  women. 
Recurrent:  1  man. 

B.  THOMAS  PAINE 

J.  LIEUT.  JAMES  MONROE 

2.  WASHINGTON 

3.  HAMILTON 

(The  Sound  of  a  Flute — Quilloquon's) 
Voices  of  Men 

ACT  III.  TENTH  ACTION 

SCENE:     In  a  scene-loft 

PLACE  AND  TIME:    At  the  Old  South  Theatre, 

Philadelphia:  winter  of  1778. 
CHARACTERS:  3  men,  2  women. — Total:  69  men, 

13  women 

1.  (A  Scene-Shifter — Quilloquon) 
a,b.  (Two  Children  with  Paint-Pots — the  Boy  and  the 

Girl) 
A.  CAPTAIN  JOHN  ANDRS 

C.  GENERAL  SIR  WILLIAM  HOWE 
F.  GENERAL  KNYPHAUSEN 

15.  POLLY  REDMOND 

16.  BETSY  ROSS 

EIGHTH  TRANSITION 

Ballad:     "Down  by  the  Cold  Hill-Sidey." 
Quilloquon — sings,  to  dulcimer 


APPENDIX  301 

ELEVENTH  ACTION 

SCENE:     Interior  of  Washington's  tent:  stormy 

daylight 

PLACE  AND  TIME  :    Valley  Forge,  winter  of  1778 
CHARACTERS:     11    men. — Total:    80    men,    13 

women.    Recurrent:    3  men 

3.  HAMILTON 

B.  THOMAS  PAINE 
Soldiers,  in  harness 
THREE  SOLDIERS  (who  speak) 
E.  The  First 
J.  The  Second 
(H).  The  Third 
2.  WASHINGTON 
H.  A  DOCTOR 
7.  BILLY 

I.  BARON  VON  STEUBEN 
G.  COUNT  PULASKI 
D.  A  SENTINEL 

4.  MARQUIS  DE  LA  FAYETTE 
1.   (A  Postboy — Quilloquon) 

NINTH  TRANSITION 

Ballad:    "Gypsy  Davy" 
Quilloquon — sings,  to  thrummed  strings 

TWELFTH  ACTION 

SCENE:    A  triumphal  Archway 

PLACE  AND  TIME  :  Philadelphia — Spring  of  1778 

CHARACTERS:  6  men,  2  women — Total:  86  men, 

15   women.     Recurrent:   2   men,   2 

women 


302  APPENDIX 

1.   (A  Ragged  Singer — Quilloquon) 
A.  "A  KNIGHT"  (CAPTAIN  ANDRE) 

15.  "A  LADY"  (POLLY  REDMOND) 
3  Soldiers 

1.  (A  Bugler — Quilloquon) 

2.  WASHINGTON 
4.  LA  FAYETTE 

E.  President  Laurens 

3.  Hamilton 
Officers 
Civilians 

16.  Betsy  Ross 

TENTH  TRANSITION 

Ballad:     "Betsy  Ross" 
Quilloquon — sings,  and  dances 
The  Children — sing  refrain  and  dance  with  him 

THIRTEENTH  ACTION 

SCENE:     An  Embrasure  in  a  Battery:  Night. 

PLACE  AND  TIME  :  Outside  the  defences  of  York- 
town,  October,  1781 

CHARACTERS:  2  men. — Total:  88  men,  15  women. 
Recurrent:  1  man. 

2.  WASHINGTON 

6.  GENERAL  HENRY  KNOX 

D.  AN  OFFICER 

ELEVENTH  TRANSITION 

A  Bell's  deep  clanging 
The  Town  Crier  (Quilloquon) — cries  the  fall  of  Yorktown. 


APPENDIX  303 

FOURTEENTH  ACTION 
Part  I. 

SCENE:     A  shadowy  semi-circle 

TIME:     May,  1782. 

CHARACTERS:     6  men. — Total:  94  men,  15 

women. 

G.  AN  OFFICER  (NICOLA) 
FIVE  OTHER  OFFICERS 
H.  The  Second 

D.  The  Third 

E.  The  Fourth 

F.  The  Fifth 
I.  The  Sixth 

Voices  of  Several  More 

Part  II. 

SCENE:     A  seat  by  a  light-stand 
TIME:     May,  1782. 
CHARACTERS:    2    men. — Total:    96    men,    15 

women.    Recurrent:  2  men. 
2.  WASHINGTON 
7,  BILLY 
G.  COL.  NICOLA 

TWELFTH  TRANSITION 

Plantation  Melody:    "Oh,  whar'll  I  lay  my  heart  down?" 
Choral  Voices  of  Negroes — sing,  to  thrummed  instruments 

FIFTEENTH  ACTION 

SCENE:  same  as  Act  I:    Night 
PLACE  AND  TIME:    Mt.  Vernon,  Christmas  Eve, 
1783 


304  APPENDIX 

CHARACTERS:      1    man,   2   women. — Total:   97 
men,  17  women.     Recurrent:  1  man, 
2  women. 
8.  ZEKIEL 
11.  MAMMY  SAL 
10.  MARTHA  WASHINGTON 
2.  WASHINGTON 

a.  Jack  Parke  Custis  (the  Boy) 

b.  Nellie  Custis  (the  Girl) 
1.  A  Fiddler  (Quilloquon) 

THIRTEENTH  TRANSITION 
Tune:     "Bangry  Rewy" 

The  Fiddler   (Quilloquon) — plays  and  mimes 
The  Two  Children — are  mute,  and  mime. 

Epilogue.—  SIXTEENTH  ACTION 

(Recession) 

SCENE:    The  Same:    Approaching  sunset. 
PLACE  AND  TIME:     Mt.  Vernon,  about  the  Pres 
ent  Time. 
CHARACTERS:    2    men. — Total:    99    men,    17 

women.     Recurrent:     2  men. 
Total  of  recurrent:  14  men,  6  women. 
Total  of  speaking  parts:  85  men,  11  women. 
Total  of  men  and  women  =  96  parts,1 

TWO  CIVILIANS 
B.  The  First 
D.  The  Second 
1.   (Quilloquon) 

1  Plus  the  parts  of  Washington,  Quilloquon  and  the  Two  Children 
=  100  parts. 


APPENDIX  305 

a,  b.   (The  Two  Children) 
c.  The  Presence 

Bearers  of  the  Banners  of  the  Allies 

FOURTEENTH  TRANSITION 

(Finale) 

Ballad:  "The  Golden  Libertee" 
Quilloquon — sings,  to  dulcimer 
The  Two  Children — are  mute. 

ACTING    ROLES 

Note:  Various  combinations  in  doubling  roles  are,  of 
course,  feasible.  The  combinations  here  given  are  sug 
gested  as  being  perhaps  the  most  appropriate  and  prac 
ticable.  They  provide  for  a  company  of  twenty-nine  per 
sons  (19  men,  8  women,  1  boy  and  1  girl),  of  whom  nine 
teen1  enact  Individual  Roles  (1  to  16  and  a,  b)  and  ten 
enact  Doubling  Roles  (A  to  J.  incl.),  as  follows:: 

INDIVIDUAL  ROLES 
(Men  and  Women) 

—  16  — 
Men  Women 

1.  Quilloquon  x  2    9.  Mary  Washington 

2.  Washington  3  10.  Martha  Washington 

3.  Alexander  Hamilton  11.  Mammy  Sal 

4.  LaFayette  12.  Sally  Fairfax 

5.  Lord  Fairfax  13.  Anne  Spearing 

6.  Henry  Knox  14.  Elizabeth  Dent 

7.  Billy  15.  Polly  Redmond 

8.  Zekiel  16.  Betsy  Ross 

^ 1  One  of  these  nineteen,  Quilloquon,  assumes  fantastically  twelve 
roles  of  pantomime  or  singing. 

2  Also  acts  the  Elderly  Woman  in  the  Induction. 

3  Also  acts  the  Younger  Woman  in  the  Induction. 


306 


APPENDIX 


(Children) 

—  2  — 
a.  The  Boy  b.  The  Girl 

(Jack  Custis:  5th  Action  (Patty  Custis:  5th  Action 


1. 


Drummer:  7th  Action 
Hobby-Lion :  8th  Action 
Ax-bearer:  8th  Action 
Gypsy:    7th   Transition 

(Part  3) 
Paint-pot  Holder:   10th 

Action 

Jack  Parke  Custis:  15th 
Action) 

(Mute) 

—  1  man  — 

c.  The  Presence 

DOUBLING  ROLES 


Fiddler:  7th  Action 
Hobby-Unicorn :      8th 

Action 

Ax-bearer :    8th    Action 
Gypsy :    7th    Transition 

(Part  3) 
Paint-pot  Holder:   10th 

Action 
Nellie  Custis:  15th  Ac 


tion) 


—  10  men  — 


(Quilloquon) 
Fiddler 

Hawker  of  Ballads 
Fifer 

Yankee  Doodle 
Grindstone-Man 
Town -Crier 

Gypsy 

Scene-Shifter 
Post-Boy 
Ragged  Singer 
Bugler 
Fiddler 


Fifth  Action 
Sixth  Action 
Seventh  Action 

Eighth  Action 
tt 

Seventh  Transition 

Part  2 
Seventh  Transition 

Part  3 

Tenth  Action 
Eleventh  Action 
Twelfth  Action 

c< 

Fifteenth  Action 


Act  I.) 
(Act  II.) 
(Act  II.) 
(Act  II.) 
(Act  II.) 

(Act  II.) 

(Act  II.) 
(Act  III.) 
(Act  III.) 
(Act  III.) 
(Act  III.) 
(Act  III.) 


APPENDIX 


307 


A.     The  Theatre 


B.  Fourth  Civilian 
William  Poole 
Thomas  Paine 

First  Civilian 

C.  Seventh  Inhibitor 
Third  Civilian 
Adjutant  Muse 
Leader  of  "Jinnies" 
General  Howe 

D.  Second  Civilian 
Humphrey  Knight 
Leader  of  the  Crowd 
First  Student 

A  Sentinel 
An  Officer 
Third  Officer 
Second  Civilian 

E.  (The  Comic  Mask) 
Sixth  Inhibitor 
Captain  John  Posey 
Second  Student 
First  Soldier 

Pres.  Laurens  (Mute] 
Fourth  Officer 

F.  (The  Tragic  Mask) 
Fifth  Inhibitor 


First  Action 

(Prologue) 

Tenth  Action 

(Act  III.) 

Second  Action 

(Prologue) 

Fourth  Action 

(Act  I.) 

Ninth  Action 

(Act  II.) 

Eleventh  Action 

(Act  III.) 

Sixteenth  Action 

(Epilogue) 

First  Action 

(Prologue) 

Second  Action 

(Prologue) 

Third  Action 

(Act  I.) 

Eighth  Action 

(Act  II.) 

Tenth  Action 

(Act  III.) 

Second  Action 

(Prologue) 

Fourth  Action 

(Act*!.) 

Sixth  Action 

(Act  II.) 

Eighth  Action 

(Act  II.) 

Eleventh  Action 

(Act  III.) 

Thirteenth  Action 

(Act  III.) 

Fourteenth  Action 

(Act  III.) 

Sixteenth  Action 

(Act  III.) 

First  Action 

(Prologue) 

Fourth  Action 

(Act  I.) 

Fifth  Action 

(Act  I.) 

Eighth  Action 

(Act  II.) 

Eleventh  Action 

(Act  III.) 

Twelfth  Action 

(Act  HI.) 

Fourteenth  Action 

(Act  III.) 

First  Action 


(Prologue), 


308 


APPENDIX 


G. 


H. 


J. 


First  Civilian 

Second  Action 

(Prologue) 

Bishop 

Fourth  Action 

(Act  I.) 

Leader  of  "Johnnies" 

Eighth  Action 

(Act  II.) 

General  Knyphausen 

Tenth  Action 

(Act  III.) 

Fifth  Officer 

Fourteenth  Action 

(Act  HI.) 

Fourth  Inhibitor 

First  Action 

(Prologue) 

A  Soldier  in  Khaki 

Second  Action 

(Prologue) 

A  Colonial  Officer 

Fourth  Action 

(Act  I.) 

Jack  Custis 

Seventh  Action 

(Act  II.) 

Count  Pulaski 

Eleventh  Action 

(Act  III.) 

Col.  Nicola 

Fourteenth  Action 

(Act  III.) 

Third  Inhibitor 

First  Action 

(Prologue) 

Soldier  in  Light-Blue  Second  Action 

(Prologue) 

Patrick  Henry 

Seventh  Action 

(Act  II.) 

A  Tattered  Doctor 

Eleventh  Action 

(Act  HI.) 

Second  Officer 

Fourteenth  Action 

(Act  III.) 

Second  Inhibitor 

First  Action 

(Prologue) 

An  Italian  Officer 

Second  Action 

(Prologue) 

Lawrence  Washington  Third  Action 

(Act  I.) 

Myles  Cooper 

Sixth  Action 

(Act  II.) 

Chaplain  Emerson 

Eighth  Action 

(Act  II.) 

Von  Steuben 

Eleventh  Action 

(Act  III.) 

Sixth  Officer 

Fourteenth  Action 

(Act  III.) 

First  Inhibitor 

First  Action 

(Prologue) 

A  British  Officer 

Second  Action 

(Prologue) 

Jacob  Van  Bramm 

Third  Action 

(Act  I.) 

A  Selectman 

Eighth  Action 

(Act  II.) 

Lieut.  James  Monroe 

Ninth  Action 

(Act  II.) 

Second  Soldier 

Eleventh  Action 

(Act  III.) 

APPENDIX 
LIST    OF    PROPERTIES 


309 


Note:  As  this  play  may  sometime  perhaps  be  of  use  for 
community  performances,  the  following  list  of  properties  is 
printed  here,  for  purposes  of  such  production: — 


Prologue. 
1st  Action :- 


2nd  Action; 


Fiddle,  Dulcimer,  Flute  (Mt.  Vernon), 

Lantern  on  Pole   (old  New  England 

lantern). 

Chair  and  Table  (Colonial:  blue). 
3  Masks  (Comedy,  Tragedy,  Theatre), 

Staff  for  Theatre  (with  Janus-head  of 

Comedy  and  Tragedy). 
Various    Masks,    Manuscripts,    Books, 

Map,  Memo,  Candles,  Scrolls. 
Guide-Book,  Sprig  of  Verbena. 


Act.  I.  Riding- Whip  (twined  with  ivy). 

3rd   Action: —         2  Broadswords,  Gamecock  in  Coop. 

Wooden  Bench,  Copper  Kettle,  Box  of 

Sand. 

Garden  Rake,  Strips  of  Cloth. 
Indian  Mask,  Surveyor's  Tripod,  Gun, 
Knapsack,  Kit,  2  Dead  Wild  Turkeys, 
Maple  Sugar,  Dog. 


4th  Action: — 


Wreath  of  Wild  Laurel. 

Long  Planting-Box  (as 
text),  Wooden  Pins, 
and  Muck,  Cloth  Bags. 

Bone-topped  Cane. 

Sealed  document. 


in 


described 
Wheelbarrow 


310 

5th  Action; 


Act  II. 

6th  Action 


7th  Action: — 


8th  Action:— 


7th  Transition 
9th  Action: — 

Act  III. 

10th  Action: — 


APPENDIX 

Trenchers,   Trays,   Dishes    (all   heaped 

with  food). 
Keys  and  Girdle. 
Table  for  Fiddler. 


Bells,  Cannon,  Musketry,  Rail,  Lan 
terns,  Poles,  Ballad  Strips  (Broad 
sides)  . 

Luggage,  Flute,  Sword  and  Girdle,  Sad 
dle-Bags,  Pocket-Book,  Drum. 

Cannon,  Table,  2  Benches. 

Hobby-Horse,  Hobby-Lion,  Hobby-Uni 
corn. 

Rattlesnake-Flag,  Snuff-Box. 

Grindstone-Push-Cart,  Hand-Bell,  Axes, 
Hatchet. 

Lantern  on  Staff  with  Hatchet  Top. 
Note-Book,  Firewood,  Musket. 


Stepladder,  Boxes,  Chair  and  Table, 
Tapestry,  Screens,  Drawings  and  De 
signs  for  Stage-Settings,  Paint-Pots, 
Paints,  Brushes,  Lanterns  (or  Can 
delabra),  Standards  for  Costumes. 

Cane,  Bundle  containing  American 
Flag  (with  Thirteen  Stars). 


llth  Action: —        Sleigh-Bells,  Grapevine  Harness,  Table, 


APPENDIX  311 

2    Campstools,    Sledge    with    Snow- 
crusted  Firewood. 

Letters  and  Papers,  Long  Pipe,  Polish 
Flag,  Post-Bag.— Dog. 

12th  Action: —  Shield  with  Landscape  (Andre's),  Va 
rious  Statues,  Bugle. 

Epilogue 

llth  Transition: — Long  Pipe,  Light-Stand,  Spectacles, 
Shaded  Lamp,  Crown  and  Colours, 
Letters,  Candle. 

16th  Action : —        Banners  of  Allied  Nations. 


312  APPENDIX 

THE  AMERICAN  PATRIOT'S  PRAYER  * 

By  THOMAS  PAINE 

(1776) 

Parent  of  all,  omnipotent 

In  heaven,  and  earth  below, 
Through  all  creation's  bounds  unspent, 

Whose  streams  of  goodness  flow, 

Teach  me  to  know  from  whence  I  rose, 

And  unto  what  designed; 
No  private  aims  let  me  propose, 

Since  linked  with  human  kind. 

But  chief  to  hear  my  country's  voice, 

May  all  my  thoughts  incline; 
'Tis  reason's  law,  'tis  virtue's  choice 

'Tis  nature's  call  and  thine. 

Me  from  fair  freedom's  sacred  cause 

Let  nothing  e'er  divide; 
Grandeur,  nor  gold,  nor  vain  applause 

Nor   friendship    false   misguide. 

Let  me  not  faction's  partial  hate 

Pursue  to  this  Land's  woe; 
Nor  grasp  the  thunder  of  the  state 

To  wound  a  private  foe. 

If,  for  the  right  to  wish  the  wrong 

My  country  shall  combine, 
Single  to  serve  th'  erroneous  throng, 

Spite  of  themselves,  be  mine. 

*  From    the    Addenda    to    "Commonsense."    See    the    "Life    of 
Thomas  Paine,"   by   Moncure   D.   Conway,   page    116. 


APPENDIX  313 


By  a  never-jailing  well  of  friendliness 

near  old  Shirley  Common 

with  its  "Water  for  Soldiers"  and  welcome 

for  road-weary  pilgrims 

-L.F.A.&S.L.- 

Arivederci! 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 


RENEWED  BOOKS  ARE  SUBJECT  TO  IMMEDIATE 
RECALL 


FEB1    1167 
RET'F!  1967 


LIBRARY,  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  DAVIS 

Book  Slip-50m-12,'64(F772s4)458 


i 


^ 

I 


397153 

MacKayc,   P. 

Washington,  the 
man  who  made  us. 


E312.65 
M15 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF   CALIFORNIA 
DAVIS 


